ONE  MAN  IN  HIS  TIME 


BOOKS  BY  ELLEN  GLASGOW 


LIFE  AND  GABRIELLA 

ONE  MAN  IN  HIS  TIME 

PHASES  OF  AN  INFERIOR  PLANET 

THE  ANCIENT  LAW 

THE  BATTLE-GROUND 

THE  BUILDERS 

THE  DELIVERANCE 

THE  DESCENDANT 

THE  FREEMAN   AND   OTHER   POEMS 

THE  MILLER  OF  OLD  CHURCH 

THE  ROMANCE  OF  A  PLAIN  MAN 

THE  VOICE  OF  THE  PEOPLE 

THE  WHEEL  OF  LIFE 

VIRGINIA 


NOTE 

No  character  in  this  book  was  drawn 
from  any  actual  person  past  or  present 


ONE   MAN    IN 
HIS  TIME 

BY 
ELLEN  GLASGOW 


"One  man  in  his  time  plays  many  parts." 


GARDEN  CITY,  NEW  YORK,  TORONTO 

DOUBLEDAY,  PAGE   &   COMPANY 
1922 


COPYRIGHT,  1922,  BY 
DOUBLEDAY,  PAGE  &  COMPANY 

ALL  RIGHTS  RESERVED,  INCLUDING  THAT  OF   TRANSLATION 
INTO  FOREIGN  LANGUAGES,  INCLUDING  THE  SCANDINAVIAN 

PRINTED  IN  THE  UNITED  STATES 

AT 
THE  COUNTRY  LIFE  PRESS,  GARDEN  CITY,  N.  Y. 

First  Edition 


nt 

f. 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I.  THE  SHADOW      ....»..;..  1 

II.  GIDEON  VETCH    .-*.,....,..  21 

III.  CORINNA  OF  THE  OLD  PRINT  SHOP         ...  37 

IV.  THE  TRIBAL  INSTINCT   .     .     ...   .     .     -    ..  57 

V.  MARGARET     ...     .     . ,    .     ....  68 

VI.  MAGIC       .     .     .     .     .     .     *     .     .     .     .  89 

VII.  CORINNA  GOES  TO  WAR      .     „     .     ...  103 

VIII.  THE  WORLD  AND  PATTY 123 

IX.  SEPTEMBER  ROSES 142 

X.  PATTY  AND  CORINNA      .     .     .     .     .     .     .  154 

XI.  THE  OLD  WALLS  AND  THE  RISING  TIDE   .      .  166 

XII.  A  JOURNEY  INTO  MEAN  STREETS        .     .      .  182 

XIII.  CORINNA  WONDERS  ........  202 

XIV.  A  LITTLE  LIGHT  ON  HUMAN  NATURE       .     .  215 
XV.  CORINNA  OBSERVES 230 

XVI.  THE  FEAR  OF  LIFE  ...     .     .     .     .     .  245 

XVII.  MRS.  GREEN       ......     .     .     .  255 


vi  CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

XVIII.  MYSTIFICATION 274 

XIX.  THE  SIXTH  SENSE 289 

XX.  CORINNA  FACES  LIFE 308 

XXI.  DANCE  Music 326 

XXII.  THE  NIGHT         341 

XXIII.  THE  DAWN 356 

XXIV.  THE  VICTORY  OF  GIDEON  VETCH  ....  369 


ONE  MAN  IN  HIS  TIME 


CHAPTER  I 

THE  SHADOW 

THE  winter's  twilight,  as  thick  as  blown  smoke, 
was  drifting  through  the  Capitol  Square.  Already  the 
snow  covered  walks  and  the  frozen  fountains  were  in 
shadow;  but  beyond  the  irregular  black  boughs  of  the 
trees  the  sky  was  still  suffused  with  the  burning  light 
of  the  sunset.  Over  the  head  of  the  great  bronze 
Washington  a  single  last  gleam  of  sunshine  shot  sud 
denly  before  it  vanished  amid  the  spires  and  chimneys 
of  the  city,  which  looked  as  visionary  and  insubstantial 
as  the  glowing  horizon. 

Stopping  midway  of  the  road,  Stephen  Culpeper 
glanced  back  over  the  vague  streets  and  the  clearer 
distance,  where  the  approaching  dusk  spun  mauve 
and  silver  cobwebs  of  air.  From  that  city,  it  seemed 
to  him,  a  new  and  inscrutable  force — the  force  of 
an  idea — had  risen  within  the  last  few  months  to  engulf 
the  Square  and  all  that  the  Square  had  ever  meant 
in  his  life.  Though  he  was  only  twenty-six,  he  felt  that 
he  had  watched  the  decay  and  dissolution  of  a  hundred 
years.  Nothing  of  the  past  remained  untouched.  Not 
the  old  buildings,  not  the  old  trees,  not  even  the  old 
memories.  Clustering  traditions  had  fled  in  the  white 
blaze  of  electricity;  the  quaint  brick  walks,  with  their 

l 


2  ONE  MAN  IN  HIS  TIME 

rich  colour  in  the  sunlight,  were  beginning  to  disappear 
beneath  the  expressionless  mask  of  concrete.  It  was  all 
changed  since  his  father's  or  his  grandfather's  day;  it 
was  all  obvious  and  cheap,  he  thought;  it  was  all  ugly 
and  naked  and  undistinguished  — yet  the  tide  of  the  new 
ideas  was  still  rising.  Democracy,  relentless,  disorderly, 
and  strewn  with  the  wreckage  of  finer  things,  had  over 
whelmed  the  world  of  established  customs  in  which  he 
lived. 

As  he  lifted  his  face  to  the  sky,  his  grave  young  fea 
tures  revealed  a  subtle  kinship  to  the  statues  beneath 
the  mounted  Washington  in  the  drive,  as  if  both  flesh 
and  bronze  had  been  moulded  by  the  dominant  spirit 
of  race.  Like  the  heroes  of  the  Revolution,  he  ap 
peared  a  stranger  in  an  age  which  had  degraded 
manners  and  enthroned  commerce;  and  like  them  also 
he  seemed  to  survey  the  present  from  some  inaccessible 
height  of  the  past.  Dignity  he  had  in  abundance, 
and  a  certain  mellow,  old-fashioned  quality;  yet,  in 
spite  of  his  well-favoured  youth,  he  was  singularly 
lacking  in  sympathetic  appeal.  Already  people  were 
beginning  to  say  that  they  "admired  Culpeper;  but 
he  was  a  bit  of  a  prig,  and  they  couldn't  get  really  in 
touch  with  him."  His  attitude  of  mind,  which  was 
passive  but  critical,  had  developed  the  faculties  of 
observation  rather  than  the  habits  of  action.  As  a 
member  of  the  community  he  was  indifferent  and 
amiable,  gay  and  ironic.  Only  the  few  who  had  seen 
his  reserve  break  down  before  the  rush  of  an  uncon 
trollable  impulse  suspected  that  there  were  rich  veins 
of  feeling  buried  beneath  his  conventional  surface,  and 
that  he  cherished  an  inarticulate  longing  for  heroic 
and  splendid  deeds.  The  war  had  left  him  with  a 


THE  SHADOW  3 

nervous  malady  which  he  had  never  entirely  overcome; 
and  this  increased  both  his  romantic  dissatisfaction 
with  his  life  and  his  inability  to  make  a  sustained  effort 
to  change  it. 

The  sky  had  faded  swiftly  to  pale  orange ;  the  distant 
buildings  appeared  to  swim  toward  him  in  the  silver  air; 
and  the  naked  trees  barred  the  white  slopes  with  violet 
shadows.  In  the  topmost  branches  of  an  old  sycamore 
the  thinnest  fragment  of  a  new  moon  hung  trembling 
like  a  luminous  thread.  The  twilight  was  intensely 
still,  and  the  noises  of  the  city  fell  with  a  metallic  sound 
on  his  ears,  as  if  a  multitude  of  bells  were  ringing 
about  him.  While  he  walked  on  past  the  bald  outline 
of  the  restored  and  enlarged  Capitol,  this  imaginary 
concert  grew  gradually  fainter,  until  he  heard  above  it 
presently  the  sudden  closing  of  a  window  in  the  Gov 
ernor's  mansion — as  the  old  gray  house  was  called. 

Pausing  abruptly,  the  young  man  frowned  as  his 
eyes  fell  on  the  charming  Georgian  front,  which  pre 
sided  like  a  serene  and  spacious  memory  over  the 
modern  utilitarian  purpose  that  was  devastating  the 
Square.  Alone  in  its  separate  plot,  broad,  low,  and 
hospitable,  the  house  stood  there  divided  and  with 
drawn  from  the  restless  progress  and  the  age  of  con 
crete — a  modest  reminder  of  the  centuries  when  men 
had  built  well  because  they  had  time,  before  they 
built,  to  stop  and  think  and  remember.  The  arrested 
dignity  of  the  past  seemed  to  the  young  man  to  hover 
above  the  old  mansion  within  its  setting  of  box  hedges 
and  leafless  lilac  shrubs  and  snow-laden  magnolia 
trees.  He  saw  the  house  contrasted  against  the  crude 
surroundings  of  the  improved  and  disfigured  Square, 
and  against  the  house,  attended  by  all  its  stately  tradi- 


4  ONE  MAN  IN  HIS  TIME 

tions,  he  saw  the  threatening  figure  of  Gideon  Vetch. 
"So  it  has  come  to  this,"  he  thought  resentfully,  with 
his  gaze  on  the  doorway  where  a  round  yellow  globe 
was  shining.  Ragged  frost-coated  branches  framed 
the  sloping  roof,  and  the  white  columns  of  the  square 
side  porches  emerged  from  the  black  crags  of  mag 
nolia  trees.  In  the  centre  of  the  circular  drive,  in 
vaded  by  concrete,  a  white  heron  poured  a  stream  of 
melting  ice  from  a  distorted  throat. 

The  shutters  were  not  closed  at  the  lower  windows, 
and  the  firelight  flickered  between  the  short  curtains 
of  some  brownish  muslin.  As  Stephen  passed  the 
gate  on  his  way  down  the  hill,  a  figure  crossed  one  of 
the  windows,  and  his  frown  deepened  as  he  recognized, 
or  imagined  that  he  recognized,  the  shadow  of  Gideon 
Vetch. 

"Gideon  Vetch!"  At  the  sound  of  the  name  the 
young  man  threw  back  his  head  and  laughed  softly. 
A  Gideon  Vetch  was  Governor  of  Virginia!  Here 
also,  he  told  himself,  half  humorously,  half  bitterly, 
democracy  had  won.  Here  also  the  destroying  idea 
had  triumphed.  In  sight  of  the  bronze  Washington, 
this  Gideon  Vetch,  one  of  "the  poor  white  trash,"  born 
in  a  circus  tent,  so  people  said,  the  demagogue  of 
demagogues  in  Stephen's  opinion — this  Gideon  Vetch 
had  become  Governor  of  Virginia!  Yet  the  placid 
course  of  Stephen's  life  flowed  on  precisely  as  it  had 
flowed  ever  since  he  could  remember,  and  the  dramatic 
hand  of  Washington  had  not  fallen.  It  was  still  so 
recent;  it  had  come  about  so  unexpectedly,  that  people 
— at  least  the  people  the  young  man  knew  and  es 
teemed — were  still  trying  to  explain  ho  wit  had  happened. 
The  old  party  had  been  sleeping,  of  course;  it  had  grown 


THE  SHADOW  5 

too  confident,  some  said  too  corpulent;  and  it  had 
slept  on  peacefully,  in  spite  of  the  stirring  strength 
of  the  labour  leaders,  in  spite  of  the  threatening 
coalition  of  the  new  factions,  in  spite  even  of  the 
swift  revolt  against  the  stubborn  forces  of  habit,  of 
tradition,  of  overweening  authority.  His  mother,  he 
knew,  held  the  world  war  responsible;  but  then  his 
mother  was  so  constituted  that  she  was  obliged  to  blame 
somebody  or  something  for  whatever  happened.  Yet 
others,  he  admitted,  as  well  as  his  mother,  held  the  war 
responsible  for  Gideon  Vetch — as  if  the  great  struggle 
had  cast  him  out  in  some  gigantic  cataclysm,  as  if  it 
had  broken  through  the  once  solid  ground  of  estab 
lished  order,  and  had  released  into  the  w^orld  all  the 
explosive  gases  of  disintegration,  of  destruction. 

For  himself,  the  young  man  reflected  now,  he  had 
always  thought  otherwise.  It  was  a  period,  he  felt, 
of  humbug  radicalism,  of  windbag  eloquence;  yet  he 
possessed  both  wit  and  discernment  enough  to  see  that, 
though  ideas  might  explode  in  empty  talk,  still  it 
took  ideas  to  make  the  sort  of  explosion  that  was 
deafening  one's  ears.  All  the  flat  formulae  of  the 
centuries  could  not  produce  a  single  Gideon  Vetch. 
Such  men  were  part  of  the  changing  world;  they 
answered  not  to  reasoned  argument,  but  to  the 
loud  crash  of  breaking  idols.  Stephen  hated  Vetch 
with  all  his  heart,  but  he  acknowledged  him.  He 
did  not  try  to  evade  the  man's  tremendous  veracity, 
his  integrity  of  being,  his  inevitableness.  An  inherent 
intellectual  honesty  compelled  Stephen  to  admit  that, 
"the  demagogue",  as  he  called  him,  had  his  appropriate 
place  in  the  age  that  produced  him — that  he  existed 
rather  as  an  outlet  for  political  tendencies  than  as  the 


6  ONE  MAN  IN  HIS  TIME 

product  of  international  violence.  He  was  more  than 
a  theatrical  attitude — a  torrent  of  words.  Even  a 
free  country — and  Stephen  thought  sentimentally  of 
America  as  "a  free  country" — must  have  its  tyran 
nies  of  opinion,  and  consequently  its  rebels  against 
current  convictions.  In  the  older  countries  he  had 
imagined  that  it  might  be  possible  to  hold  with  the 
hare  and  run  with  the  hounds;  but  in  the  land  of 
opportunity  for  all  there  was  less  reason  to  be  as 
tonished  when  the  hunted  turned  at  last  into  the 
hunter.  Where  every  boy  was  taught  that  he  might 
some  day  be  President,  why  should  one  stand  amazed 
when  the  ambitious  son  of  a  circus  rider  became  Gov 
ernor  of  Virginia?  After  all,  a  fair  field  and  no  favours 
was  the  best  that  the  most  conservative  of  politicians — 
the  best  that  even  John  Benham  could  ask. 

Yes,  there  was  a  cause,  there  was  a  reason  for  the 
miracle  of  disorder,  or  it  would  not  have  happened.  The 
hour  had  called  forth  the  man;  but  the  man  had  been 
there  awaiting  the  strokes,  listening,  listening,  with 
his  ear  to  the  wind.  It  had  been  a  triumph  of  per 
sonality,  one  of  those  rare  dramatic  occasions  when 
the  right  man  and  the  appointed  time  come  together. 
This  the  young  man  admitted  candidly  in  the  very 
moment  when  he  told  himself  that  he  detested  the 
demagogue  and  all  his  works.  A  man  who  con 
sistently  made  his  bid  for  the  support  of  the  radical 
element!  Who  stirred  up  the  forces  of  discontent 
because  he  could  harness  them  to  his  chariot!  A  man 
who  was  born  in  a  circus  tent,  and  who  still  performed 
in  public  the  tricks  of  a  mountebank!  That  this  man 
had  power,  Stephen  granted  ungrudgingly;  but  it  was 
power  over  the  undisciplined,  the  half-educated,  the 


THE  SHADOW  ? 

mentally  untrained.  It  was  power,  as  John  Benham 
had  once  remarked  with  a  touch  of  hyperbole,  over 
empty  stomachs. 

There  were  persons  in  Stephen's  intimate  circle 
(there  are  such  persons  even  in  the  most  conserva 
tive  communities)  who  contended  that  Vetch  was  in 
his  way  a  rude  genius.  Judge  Horatio  Lancaster 
Page,  for  instance,  insisted  that  the  Governor  had  a 
charm  of  his  own,  that,  "he  wasn't  half  bad  to  look  at  if 
you  caught  him  smiling,"  that  he  could  even  reason 
"like  one  of  us,"  if  you  granted  him  his  premise.  After 
the  open  debate  between  Vetch  and  Benham — the 
great  John  Benham,  hero  of  war  and  peace,  and  tire 
less  labourer  in  the  vineyard  of  public  service — after 
this  memorable  discussion,  Judge  Horatio  Lancaster 
Page  had  remarked,  in  his  mild,  unpolemical  tone, 
that  "though  John  had  undoubtedly  carried  off  the 
flowers  of  rhetoric,  there  was  a  good  deal  of  wholesome 
green  stuff  about  that  fellow  Vetch."  But  everybody 
knew  that  a  man  with  a  comical  habit  of  mind  could  not 
be  right. 

Again  the  figure  crossed  the  firelight  between  the 
muslin  curtains,  and  to  Stephen  Culpeper,  standing 
alone  in  the  snow  outside,  that  large  impending  pres 
ence  embodied  all  that  he  and  his  kind  had  hated  and 
feared  for  generations.  It  embodied  among  other 
disturbances  the  law  of  change;  and  to  Stephen  and 
his  race  of  pleasant  livers  the  two  sinister  forces  in  the 
universe  were  change  and  death.  After  all,  they  had 
made  the  world,  these  pleasant  livers;  and  what  were 
those  other  people — the  people  represented  by  that 
ominous  shadowT — except  the  ragged  prophets  of  dis 
order  and  destruction? 


8  ONE  MAN  IN  HIS  TIME 

Turning  away,  Stephen  descended  the  wide  brick 
walk  which  fell  gradually,  past  the  steps  of  the  library 
and  the  gaunt  railing  round  a  motionless  fountain,  to 
the  broad  white  slope  of  the  Square  with  its  smoky 
veil  of  twilight.  Farther  away  he  saw  the  high 
iron  fence  and  heard  the  clanging  of  passing  street 
cars.  On  his  left  the  ugly  shape  of  the  library 
resembled  some  crude  architectural  design  sketched 
on  parchment. 

As  he  approached  the  fountain,  a  small  figure  in  a 
red  cape  detached  itself  suddenly  from  the  mesh  of 
shadows,  and  he  recognized  Patty  Vetch,  the  irrepres 
sible  young  daughter  of  the  Governor.  He  had  seen 
her  the  evening  before  at  a  charity  ball,  where  she  had 
been  politely  snubbed  by  what  he  thought  of  com 
placently  as  "our  set."  From  the  moment  when  he 
had  first  looked  at  her  across  the  whirling  tulle  and 
satin  skirts  in  the  ballroom,  he  had  decided  that  she 
embodied  as  obviously  as  her  father,  though  in  a 
different  fashion,  the  qualities  which  were  most  offen 
sive  both  to  his  personal  preferences  and  his  inherited 
standards  of  taste.  The  girl  in  her  scarlet  dress,  with 
her  dark  bobbed  hair  curling  in  on  her  neck,  her  candid 
ivory  forehead,  her  provoking  blunt  nose,  her  bright 
red  lips,  and  the  inquiring  arch  of  her  black  eyebrows 
over  her  gray-green  eyes,  had  appeared  to  him  ab 
surdly  like  a  picture  on  the  cover  of  some  cheap  maga 
zine.  He  had  heartily  disapproved  of  her,  but  he 
couldn't  help  looking  at  her.  If  she  had  been  on  the 
cover  of  a  magazine,  he  had  told  himself  sternly,  he 
should  never  have  bought  it.  He  had  correct  ideas 
of  what  a  lady  should  be  (they  were  inherited  from  the 
early  eighties  and  his  mother  had  implanted  them),  and 


THE  SHADOW  9 

he  would  have  known  anywhere  that  Patty  Vetch  was 
not  exactly  a  lady.  Though  he  was  broad  enough  in 
his  views  to  realize  that  types  repeat  themselves  only 
in  variations,  and  that  girls  of  to-day  are  not  all  that 
they  were  in  the  happy  eighties  — that  one  might  make 
up  flashily  like  Geraldine  St.  John,  or  dance  outra 
geously  like  Bertha  Underwood,  and  yet  remain  in  all 
essential  social  values  "a  lady" — still  he  was  aware  that 
the  external  decorations  of  a  chorus  girl  could  not 
turn  the  shining  daughter  of  the  St.  Johns  for  an  imi 
tation  of  paste,  and,  though  the  nimble  Bertha 
could  perform  every  Jazz  motion  ever  invented, 
one  would  never  dream  of  associating  her  with  a 
circus  ring.  It  was  not  the  things  one  did  that  made 
one  appear  unrefined,  he  had  concluded  at  last,  but 
the  way  that  one  did  them;  and  Patty  Vetch's  way  was 
not  the  prescribed  wray  of  his  world.  Small  as  she  was 
there  was  too  much  of  her.  She  contrived  always  to 
be  where  one  was  looking.  She  was  too  loud,  too  vivid, 
too  highly  charged  with  vitality;  she  was  too  obviously 
different.  If  a  redbird  had  flown  into  the  heated  glare 
of  the  ballroom  Stephen's  gaze  would  have  followed 
it  with  the  same  startled  and  fascinated  attention. 

As  the  girl  approached  him  now  on  the  snow-covered 
slope,  he  was  conscious  again  of  that  swift  recoil  from 
chill  disapproval  to  reluctant  attraction.  Though  she 
was  not  beautiful,  though  she  was  not  even  pretty 
according  to  the  standards  with  which  he  was  familiar, 
she  possessed  what  he  felt  to  be  a  dangerous  allurement. 
He  had  never  imagined  that  anything  so  small  could 
be  so  much  alive.  The  electric  light  under  which 
she  passed  revealed  the  few  golden  freckles  over  her 
childish  nose,  the  gray-green  colour  of  her  eyes  beneath 


10  ONE  MAN  IN  HIS  TIME 

the  black  eyelashes,  and  the  sensitive  red  mouth  which 
looked  as  soft  and  sweet  as  a  carnation.  It  revealed 
also  the  absurd  shoes  of  gray  suede,  with  French 
toes  and  high  and  narrow  heels,  in  which  she  flitted, 
regardless  alike  of  danger  and  of  common  sense, 
over  the  slippery  ground.  The  son  of  a  strong- 
minded  though  purely  feminine  mother,  he  had  been 
trained  to  esteem  discretion  in  dress  almost  as  highly 
as  rectitude  of  character  in  a  woman;  and  by  no  chari 
table  stretch  of  the  imagination  could  he  endow  his 
first  impression  of  Patty  Vetch  with  either  of  these 
attributes. 

"It  would  serve  her  right  if  she  fell  and  broke  her 
leg,"  he  thought  severely;  and  the  idea  of  such  merited 
punishment  was  still  in  his  mind  when  he  heard 
a  sharp  gasp  of  surprise,  and  saw  the  girl  slip,  with  a 
frantic  clutch  at  the  air,  and  fall  at  full  length  on  the 
shining  ground.  When  he  sprang  forward  and  bent 
over  her,  she  rose  quickly  to  her  knees  and  held  out 
what  he  thought  at  first  was  some  queer  small  muff 
of  feathers. 

"Please  hold  this  pigeon,"  she  said,  "I  saw  it  this 
afternoon,  and  I  came  out  to  look  for  it.  Somebody 
has  broken  its  wings." 

"If  you  came  out  to  walk  on  ice,"  he  replied  with  a 
smile,  "  why,  in  Heaven's  name,  didn't  you  wear  skates 
or  rubbers?" 

She  gave  a  short  little  laugh  which  was  entirely  with 
out  merriment.  "I  don't  skate,  and  I  never  wear 
rubbers." 

He  glanced  down  at  her  feet  in  candid  disapproval. 
"Then  you  mustn't  be  surprised  if  you  get  a  sprained 
ankle." 


THE  SHADOW  11 

"I  am  not  surprised,"  she  retorted  calmly.  "Noth 
ing  surprises  me.  Only  my  ankle  isn't  sprained.  I  am 
just  getting  my  breath." 

She  had  rested  her  knee  on  a  bench,  and  she  looked 
up  at  him  now  with  bright,  enigmatical  eyes.  "You 
don't  mind  waiting  a  moment,  do  you?"  she  asked. 
To  his  secret  resentment  she  appeared  to  be  deliberately 
appraising  either  his  abilities  or  his  attractions — he 
wasn't  sure  which  engaged  her  bold  and  perfectly  un 
embarrassed  regard. 

"No,  I  don't  mind  in  the  least,"  he  replied,  "but 
I'd  like  to  get  you  home  if  you  have  really  hurt  your 
self.  Of  course  it  was  your  own  fault  that  you  fell," 
he  added  truthfully  but  indiscreetly. 

For  an  instant  she  seemed  to  be  holding  her  breath, 
while  he  stood  there  in  what  he  felt  to  be  a  foolish  atti 
tude,  with  the  pigeon  (for  all  symbolical  purposes  it 
might  as  well  have  been  a  dove)  clasped  to  his  breast. 

"Oh,  I  know,"  she  responded  presently  in  a  voice 
which  was  full  of  suppressed  anger.  "Everything  is 
my  fault — even  the  fact  that  I  was  born!" 

Shocked  out  of  his  conventional  manner,  he  stared 
at  her  in  silence,  and  the  pigeon,  feeling  the  strain  of 
his  grasp,  fluttered  softly  against  his  overcoat.  What 
was  there  indeed  for  him  to  do  except  stare  at  a  lack 
of  reticence,  of  good-breeding,  which  he  felt  to  be 
deplorable?  His  fine  young  face,  with  its  character 
istic  note  of  reserve,  hardened  into  sternness  as  he 
remembered  having  heard  somewhere  that  the  girl's 
mother  had  been  killed  or  injured  when  she  was  per 
forming  some  dangerous  act  at  a  country  fair.  Well, 
one  might  expect  anything,  he  supposed,  from  such  an 
inheritance. 


12  ONE  MAN  IN  HIS  TIME 

"May  I  help  you?"  he  asked  with  distant  and 
chilly  politeness. 

"Oh,  can't  you  wait  a  minute?"  She  impatiently 
thrust  aside  his  offer.  "I  must  get  my  breath  again." 

It  was  plain  that  she  was  very  angry,  that  she  was 
in  the  clutch  of  a  smothered  yet  violent  resentment, 
which,  he  inferred  with  reason,  was  directed  less 
against  himself  than  against  some  abstract  and  im 
personal  law  of  life.  Her  rage  was  not  merely  temper 
against  a  single  human  being;  it  was,  he  realized,  a 
passionate  rebellion  against  Fate  or  Nature,  or  what 
ever  she  personified  as  the  instrument  of  the  injus 
tice  from  which  she  suffered.  Her  eyes  were  gleam 
ing  through  the  web  of  light  and  shadow;  her  mouth  was 
trembling;  and  there  was  the  moisture  of  tears — or  was 
it  only  the  glitter  of  ice? — on  her  round  young  cheek. 
And  while  he  looked,  chilled,  disapproving,  unsym 
pathetic,  at  the  vivid  flower-like  bloom  of  her  face, 
there  seemed  to  flow  from  her  and  envelop  him  the  spirit 
of  youth  itself — of  youth  adventurous,  intrepid,  and 
defiant;  of  youth  rejecting  the  expedient  and  demand 
ing  the  impossible;  of  youth  eternally  desirable,  en 
chanting,  and  elusive.  It  was  as  if  his  orderly,  com 
placent,  and  tranquil  soul  had  plunged  suddenly  into 
a  bath  of  golden  air.  Vaguely  disturbed,  he  drew  back 
and  tried  to  appear  dignified  in  spite  of  the  fluttering 
pigeon.  He  had  no  inclination  for  a  flirtation  with 
the  Governor's  daughter — intuitively  he  felt  that  such 
an  adventure  would  not  be  a  safe  one;  but  if  a  flirtation 
were  what  she  wanted,  he  told  himself,  with  a  sense 
of  impending  doom,  "there  might  be  trouble."  He 
didn't  know  what  she  meant,  but  whatever  it  was,  she 
evidently  meant  it  with  determination.  Already  she 


THE  SHADOW  13 

had  impressed  him  with  the  quality  which,  for  want  of 
a  better  word,  he  thought  of  as  "wildoess."  It  was  a 
quality  which  he  had  found  strangely,  if  secretly, 
alluring,  and  he  acknowledged  now  that  this  note  of 
"wildness,"  of  unexpectedness,  of  "something  differ 
ent"  in  her  personality,  had  held  his  gaze  chained  to 
the  airy  flutter  of  her  scarlet  skirt.  He  felt  vaguely 
troubled.  Something  as  intricate  and  bewildering  as 
impulse  was  winding  through  the  smoothly  beaten 
road  of  his  habit  of  thought.  The  noises  of  the  city 
came  to  him  as  if  they  floated  over  an  immeasurable 
distance  of  empty  space.  Through  the  spectral 
boughs  of  the  sycamores  the  golden  sky  had  faded  to 
the  colour  of  ashes.  And  both  the  empty  space  and 
the  ashen  sky  seemed  to  be  not  outside  of  himself,  but 
a  part  of  the  hidden  country  within  his  mind. 

"You  were  at  the  ball,"  she  burst  out  suddenly,  as  if 
she  had  been  holding  back  the  charge  from  the  be 
ginning. 

"At  the  ball?  "  he  repeated,  and  the  words  were  spoken 
with  his  lips  merely  in  that  objective  world  of  routine 
and  habit.  "Yes,  I  was  there.  It  was  a  dull  business." 

She  laughed  again  with  the  lack  of  merriment  he  had 
noticed  before.  Though  her  face  was  made  for  laugh 
ter,  there  was  an  oddly  conflicting  note  of  tragedy  in 
her  voice.  "Was  it  dull?  I  didn't  notice." 

"Then  you  must  have  enjoyed  it?" 

"But  you  were  there.  You  saw  what  happened. 
Every  one  must  have  seen."  Her  savage  candour 
brushed  away  the  flimsy  amenities.  He  knew  now  that 
she  would  say  whatever  she  pleased,  and,  with  the 
pigeon  clasped  tightly  in  his  arms,  he  waited  for  any 
thing  that  might  come. 


14  ONE  MAN  IN  HIS  TIME 

"You  pretend  that  you  don't  know,  that  you  didn't 
see!"  she  asked  indignantly. 

As  she  looked  at  him  he  thought — or  it  may  have 
been  the  effect  of  the  shifting  light — that  her  eyes 
diffused  soft  green  rays  beneath  her  black  eyelashes. 
Was  there  really  the  mist  of  tears  in  her  sparkling 
glance? 

"I  am  sorry,"  he  said  simply,  being  a  young  man 
of  few  words  when  the  need  of  speech  was  obvious. 
The  last  thing  he  wanted,  he  told  himself,  was  to  re 
ceive  the  confidences  of  the  Governor's  daughter. 

At  this  declaration,  so  characteristic  of  his  amiable 
temperament,  her  anger  flashed  over  him.  "You  were 
not  sorry.  You  know  you  were  not,  or  you  would 
have  made  them  kinder!" 

"Kinder?  But  how  could  I?"  He  felt  that  her 
rage  was  making  her  unreasonable.  "I  didn't  know 
you.  I  hadn't  even  been  introduced  to  you."  It  was 
on  the  tip  of  his  tongue  to  add,  "and  I  haven't  been 
yet —  '  but  he  checked  himself  in  fear  of  unchaining 
the  lightning.  It  was  all  perfectly  true.  He  had  not 
even  been  introduced  to  the  girl,  and  here  she  was, 
as  crude  as  life  and  as  intemperate,  accusing  him  of 
indifference  and  falsehood.  And  after  all,  what  had 
they  done  to  her?  No  one  had  been  openly  rude. 
Nothing  had  been  said,  he  was  sure,  absolutely  nothing. 
It  had  been  a  "charity  entertainment,"  and  the  young 
people  of  his  set  had  merely  left  her  alone,  that  was  all. 
The  affair  had  been  far  from  exclusive — for  the  enter 
prising  ladies  of  the  Beech  Tree  Day  Nursery  had 
prudently  preferred  a  long  subscription  list  to  a  limited 
social  circle  — and  in  a  gathering  so  obscurely  "mixed" 
there  were,  without  doubt,  a  number  of  Gideon  Vetch's 


THE  SHADOW  15 

admirers.  Was  it  maliciously  arranged  by  Fate  that 
Patty  Vetch's  social  success  should  depend  upon  the 
people  who  had  elected  her  father  to  office? 

"As  if  that  mattered!" 

Her  scorn  of  his  subterfuge,  her  mocking  defiance  of 
the  sacred  formula  to  which  he  deferred,  awoke  in 
him  an  unfamiliar  and  pleasantly  piquant  sensation. 
Through  it  all  he  was  conscious  of  the  inner  prick 
and  sting  of  his  disapprobation,  as  if  the  swift  attraction 
had  passed  into  a  mental  aversion. 

"As  if  that  mattered!"  he  echoed  gaily,  "as  if  that 
mattered  at  all!" 

Her  face  changed  in  the  twilight,  and  it  seemed  to 
him  that  he  saw  her  for  the  first  time  with  the  peculiar 
vividness  that  came  only  in  dreams  or  in  the  hidden 
country  within  his  mind.  The  sombre  arch  of  the 
sky,  the  glimmer  of  lights  far  away,  the  clustering 
shadows  against  the  white  field  of  snow,  the  vague 
ghostly  shapes  of  the  sycamores  — all  these  things 
endowed  her  with  the  potency  of  romantic  adventure. 
In  the  winter  night  she  seemed  to  him  to  exhale  the 
roving  sweetness  of  spring.  Then  she  spoke,  and  the 
sharp  brightness  of  his  vision  was  clouded  by  the  old 
sense  of  unreality. 

"They  treated  me  as  if  I  were  a  piece  of  bunting  or 
a  flower  in  a  pot,"  she  said.  "  They  left  me  alone  in  the 
dressing-room.  No  one  spoke  to  me,  though  they 
must  have  knowTi  who  I  was.  They  know,  all  of  them, 
that  I  am  the  Governor's  daughter." 

With  a  start  he  brought  himself  back  from  the  secret 
places.  "But  I  thought  you  carried  your  head  very 
high,"  he  answered,  "and  you  did  not  appear  to  lack 
partners."  Some  small  ironic  demon  that  seemed  to 


16  ONE  MAN  IN  HIS  TIME 

dwell  in  his  brain  and  yet  to  have  no  part  in  his  real 
thought,  moved  him  to  add  indiscreetly:  "I  thought 
you  danced  every  dance  with  Julius  Gershom.  That's 
the  name  of  that  dark  fellow  who's  a  politician  of 
doubtful  cast,  isn't  it?" 

She  made  a  petulant  gesture,  and  the  red  wings 
in  her  hat  vibrated  like  the  wings  of  a  bird  in  flight. 
There  flashed  though  his  mind  while  he  watched  her 
the  memory  of  a  cardinal  he  had  seen  in  a  cedar  tree 
against  the  snow-covered  landscape.  Strange  that 
he  could  never  get  away  from  the  thought  of  a  bird 
when  he  looked  at  her. 

"Oh,  Julius  Gershom!     I  despise  him!" 

She  shivered,  and  he  asked  with  a  sympathy  he  had 
not  displayed  for  mental  discomforts:  "Aren't  you 
dreadfully  chilled?  This  kind  of  thing  is  a  risk,  you 
know.  You  might  catch  influenza — or  anything." 

"Yes,  I  might,  if  there  is  any  about,"  she  replied 
tartly,  and  he  saw  with  relief  that  her  petulance  had 
faded  to  dull  indifference.  "I  was  obliged  to  dance 
with  somebody,"  she  resumed  after  a  minute,  "I 
couldn't  sit  against  the  wall  the  whole  evening,  could 
I?  And  nobody  else  asked  me, — but  I  don't  like  him 
any  the  better  for  that." 

"And  your  father?  Does  he  dislike  him  also?"  he 
asked. 

"How  can  one  tell?  He  says  he  is  useful."  There 
was  a  playful  tenderness  in  her  voice. 

"Useful?     You   mean   in   politics?" 

She  laughed.  "How  else  in  the  world  can  any  one 
be  useful  to  Father?  It  must  be  freezing." 

"No,  it  is  melting;  but  it  is  too  cold  to  play  about  out 
of  doors." 


THE  SHADOW  17 

"Your  teeth  are  chattering!"  she  rejoined  with 
scornful  merriment. 

"They  are  not,"  he  retorted  indignantly.  "I  am  as 
comfortable  as  you  are." 

"Well,  I'm  not  comfortable  at  all.  Something — I 
don't  know  what  it  was — happened  to  my  ankle.  I 
think  I  twisted  it  when  I  fell." 

"And  all  this  time  you  haven't  said  a  word.  We've 
talked  about  nothing  while  you  must  have  been  in 
pain." 

She  shook  her  head  as  if  his  new  solicitude  irritated 
her,  and  a  quiver  of  pain — or  was  it  amusement? — 
crossed  her  lips.  "It  isn't  the  first  time  I've  had  to 
grit  my  teeth  and  bear  things — but  it's  getting  worse 
instead  of  better  all  the  time,  and  I'm  afraid  I  shall 
have  to  ask  you  to  help  me  up  the  hill.  I  was  waiting 
until  I  thought  I  could  manage  it  by  myself." 

So  that  was  why  she  had  kept  him!  She  had  hoped 
all  the  time  that  she  could  go  on  presently  without  his 
aid,  and  she  realized  now  that  it  was  impossible.  In 
sensibly  his  judgment  of  her  softened,  as  if  his  romantic 
imagination  had  spun  iridescent  cobwebs  about  her. 
By  Jove,  what  pluck  she  had  shown,  what  endurance! 
There  came  to  him  suddenly  the  realization  that  if  she 
had  learned  to  treat  a  sprained  ankle  so  lightly,  it  could 
mean  only  that  her  short  life  had  been  full  of  mis 
adventures  beside  which  a  sprained  ankle  appeared 
trivial.  She  could  "play  the  game"  so  perfectly,  he 
grasped,  because  she  had  been  obliged  either  to  play  it 
or  go  under  ever  since  she  had  been  big  enough  to  read 
the  cards  in  her  hand.  To  be  "a  good  sport"  was  per 
haps  the  best  lesson  that  the  world  had  yet  taught  her. 
Though  she  could  not  be,  he  decided,  more  than 


18  ONE  MAN  IN  HIS  TIME 

eighteen,  she  had  acquired  already  the  gay  bravado  of 
the  experienced  gambler  with  life. 

"Let  me  help  you,"  he  said  eagerly,  "I  am  sure  that  I 
can  carry  you,  you  are  so  small.  If  you  will  only  let  me 
throw  away  this  confounded  bird,  I  can  manage  it 
easily." 

"No,  give  it  to  me.  It  would  die  of  cold  if  we  left 
it."  She  stretched  out  her  hand,  and  in  silence  he  gave 
her  the  wounded  pigeon.  Her  tenderness  for  the  bird, 
conflicting  as  it  did  with  his  earlier  impression  of  her, 
both  amused  and  perplexed  him.  He  couldn't  reconcile 
her  quick  compassion  with  her  resentful  and  mocking 
attitude  toward  himself. 

At  his  impulsive  offer  of  help  the  quiver  shook  her 
lips  again,  and  stooping  over  she  did  something  which 
appeared  to  him  quite  unnecessary  to  one  gray  suede 
shoe.  "No,  it  isn't  as  bad  as  that.  I  don't  need  to  be 
carried,"  she  said.  "That  sort  of  thing  went  out  of 
fashion  ages  ago.  If  you'll  just  let  me  lean  on  you  until 
I  get  up  the  hill." 

She  put  her  hand  through  his  arm;  and  while  he 
walked  slowly  up  the  hill,  he  decided  that,  taken  all  in 
all,  the  present  moment  was  the  most  embarrassing  one 
through  which  he  had  ever  lived.  The  fugitive  gleam, 
the  romantic  glamour,  had  vanished  now.  He  won 
dered  what  it  was  about  her  that  he  had  at  first  found 
attractive.  It  was  the  spirit  of  the  place,  he  decided, 
nothing  more.  With  every  step  of  the  way  there  closed 
over  him  again  his  natural  reserve,  his  unconquerable 
diffidence,  his  instinctive  recoil  from  the  eccentric  in 
behaviour.  Conventions  were  the  breath  of  his  young 
nostrils,  and  yet  he  was  passing  through  an  atmosphere, 
without,  thank  Heaven,  his  connivance  or  inclination, 


THE  SHADOW  19 

where  it  seemed  to  him  the  hardiest  convention  could 
not  possibly  survive.  When  the  lights  of  the  mansion 
shone  nearer  through  the  bared  boughs,  he  heaved  a  sigh 
of  relief. 

"Have  I  tired  you?"  asked  the  girl  in  response,  and 
the  curious  lilting  note  in  her  voice  made  him  turn  his 
head  and  glance  at  her  in  sudden  suspicion.  Had  she 
really  hurt  herself,  or  was  she  merely  indulging  some 
hereditary  streak  of  buffoonery  at  his  expense?  It 
struck  him  that  she  would  be  capable  of  such  a  per 
formance,  or  of  anything  else  that  invited  her  amazing 
vivacity.  His  one  hope  was  that  he  might  leave  her  in 
some  obscure  corner  of  the  house,  and  slip  away  before 
anybody  capable  of  making  a  club  joke  had  discovered 
his  presence.  The  hidden  country  was  lost  now,  and 
with  it  the  perilous  thrill  of  enchantment. 

He  rang  the  bell,  and  the  door  was  opened  by  an  old 
coloured  butler  who  had  been  one  of  the  family  servants 
of  the  Culpepers.  How  on  earth,  Stephen  wondered, 
could  the  Governor  tolerate  the  venerable  Abijah,  the 
chosen  companion  of  Culpeper  children  for  two  gener 
ations?  While  he  wondered  he  recalled  something  his 
mother  had  said  a  few  weeks  ago  about  Abijah's  having 
been  lured  away  by  the  offer  of  absurd  wages.  "You 
needn't  worry,"  she  had  added  shrewdly,  "he  will  re 
turn  as  soon  as  he  gets  tired  of  working." 

"I  hurt  my  ankle,  Abijah,"  said  the  girl. 

"You  ain't,  is  you,  Miss  Patty?"  replied  Abijah,  in 
an  indulgent  tone  which  conveyed  to  Stephen's  delicate 
ears  every  shade  of  difference  between  the  Vetchs'  and 
the  Culpepers'  social  standing. 

"How  are  you,  Abijah?"  remarked  the  young  man 
with  the  air  of  lordly  pleasantry  he  used  to  all  servants 


20  ONE  MAN  IN  HIS  TIME 

who  were  not  white.  Beyond  the  fine  old  hall  he  saw 
the  formal  drawing-room  and  the  modern  octagonal 
dining-room  at  the  back  of  the  house. 

"Howdy,  Marse  Stephen,"  responded  the  negro,  "I 
seed  yo'  ma  yestiddy  en  she  sutney  wuz  lookin  well  an' 
peart." 

He  opened  the  door  of  the  library,  and  while  Stephen 
entered  the  room  with  the  girl's  hand  on  his  arm,  a  man 
rose  from  a  chair  by  the  fire  and  came  forward. 

"Father,  this  is  Mr.  Culpeper,"  remarked  Patty 
calmly,  as  she  sank  on  a  sofa  and  stretched  out  her 
frivolous  shoes. 

In  the  midst  of  his  embarrassment  Stephen  wondered 
resentfully  how  she  had  discovered  his  name. 


CHAPTER  II 

GIDEON  VETCH 

"YouR  daughter  slipped  on  the  ice,"  explained  the 
young  man,  while  the  thought  flashed  through  his  mind 
that  Patty's  father  was  accepting  it  all,  with  ironical 
humour,  as  some  queer  masquerade. 

It  was  the  first  time  that  Stephen  had  come  within 
range  of  the  Governor's  personal  influence,  and  he 
found  himself  waiting  curiously  for  the  response  of 
his  sympathies  or  his  nerves.  Once  or  twice  he  had 
heard  Vetch  speak — a  storm  of  words  which  had  played 
freely  from  the  lightning  flash  of  humorous  invective  to 
the  rolling  thunder  of  passionate  denunciation.  Such 
sound  and  fury  had  left  Stephen  the  one  unmoved  man 
in  the  audience.  He  had  been  brought  up  on  the 
sonorous  rhetoric  and  the  gorgeous  purple  periods  of  the 
classic  orations;  and  the  mere  undraped  sincerity — the 
raw  head  and  bloody  bones  eloquence,  as  he  put  it,  of 
Vetch's  speech  had  been  as  offensive  to  his  taste  as  it 
had  been  unconvincing  to  his  intelligence.  The  man 
was  a  mountebank,  nothing  more,  Stephen  had  decided, 
and  his  strange  power  was  simply  the  reaction  of  mob 
hysteria  to  the  stage  tricks  of  the  political  clown. 

Yes,  the  man  was  a  mountebank — but  was  he  nothing 
more  than  a  mountebank?  Like  most  men  of  his  age, 
Stephen  Culpeper  was  inclined  to  swift  impressions 
rather  than  hasty  judgments  of  people;  and  he  was  con 
scious,  while  he  listened  in  silence  to  the  murmuring 

21 


22  ONE  MAN  IN  HIS  TIME 

explanations  of  the  girl,  that  the  immediate  effect  was  a 
sensation,  not  an  idea.  At  first  sight,  the  Governor 
appeared  merely  ordinary — a  tall,  rugged  figure,  built 
of  good  bone  and  muscle  and  sound  to  the  core,  with 
the  look  of  arrested  energy  which  was  doubtless  an 
inheritance  from  the  circus  ring.  There  was  nothing 
impressive  about  him;  nothing  that  would  cause  one  to 
turn  and  look  back  in  a  crowd.  What  struck  one  most 
was  his  air  of  extraordinary  freshness  and  health,  of 
sanguine  vitality.  His  face  was  well-coloured  and  ir 
regular  in  outline,  with  a  high  bulging  forehead  and 
thick  sandy  hair  which  was  already  gray  on  the  temples. 
In  the  shadow  his  eyes  did  not  appear  remarkably  fine; 
they  seemed  at  the  first  glance  to  be  of  an  indeterminate 
colour — was  it  blue  or  gray? — and  there  was  nothing 
striking  in  their  deep  setting  under  the  beetling  sandy 
eyebrows.  All  this  was  true;  and  yet  while  Stephen 
looked  into  them  over  the  Governor's  outstretched 
hand,  he  told  himself  that  they  were  the  most  human 
eyes  he  had  ever  seen.  Afterward,  when  he  groped 
through  his  vocabulary  for  a  more  accurate  description, 
he  could  not  find  one.  There  was  shrewdness  in  Gideon 
Vetch's  eyes;  there  was  friendliness;  there  was  the  blue 
sparkle  of  contagious  humour — a  ripple  of  light  that  was 
like  visible  laughter — but  above  all  there  was  humanity. 
Though  Stephen  did  not  try  to  grasp  the  vivid  impres 
sions  that  passed  through  his  mind,  he  felt  intuitively 
that  he  had  learned  to  know  Gideon  Vetch  through  his 
look  and  manner  as  well  as  he  should  have  known 
another  man  after  weeks  or  months  of  daily  intercourse. 
Whatever  the  man's  private  life,  whatever  his  political 
faults  may  have  been,  there  was  magic  in  the  clasp  of  his 
hand  and  the  cordial  glow  of  his  smile.  He  was  always 


GIDEON  VETCH  23 

responsive;  he  stood  always  on  the  same  level,  high  or 
low,  with  his  companion  of  the  moment:  he  was  as  in 
capable  of  looking  up  as  he  was  of  looking  down;  he 
was  equally  without  reverence  and  without  conde 
scension.  It  was  the  law  of  his  nature  that  he  should 
give  himself  emphatically  to  the  just  and  the  unjust 
alike. 

"He  came  home  with  me  because  I  hurt  my  foot," 
Patty  was  saying. 

Had  she  forgotten  already,  Stephen  asked  himself 
cynically,  that  it  was  not  her  foot  but  her  ankle?  His 
suspicions  returned  while  he  looked  at  her  blooming 
face,  and  he  hoped  earnestly  that  she  would  not  feel 
impelled  to  relate  any  irrelevant  details  of  the  ad 
venture.  Like  Gideon  Vetch  on  the  platform  she 
seemed  incapable  of  withholding  the  smallest  fragment 
of  a  fact;  and  the  young  man  wondered  if  it  were 
characteristic  either  of  "the  plain  people,"  as  he  called 
them,  or  of  circus  riders  as  a  class,  that  their  minds 
should  go  habitually  unclothed  yet  unashamed. 

"Thank  you,  sir,"  said  the  Governor  without  ef 
fusion;  and  he  asked:  "Did  you  hurt  yourself 9 
Patty?"  while  he  bent  over  and  laid  his  hand  on  her 
ankle. 

A  note  of  tenderness  passed  into  his  voice  as  he 
turned  to  the  girl;  and  when  she  answered  after  a  minute, 
Stephen  recognized  the  same  tone  of  affectionate  play 
fulness  that  she  used  when  she  spoke  of  him. 

"Not  much,"  she  replied  carelessly.  Then  she  held 
out  the  drooping  pigeon.  "I  found  this  bird.  Is  there 
anything  we  can  do  for  it?" 

The  Governor  took  the  bird  from  her,  and  examined 
it  under  the  light  with  the  manner  of  brisk  confidence 


24  ONE  MAN  IN  HIS  TIME 

which  directed  his  slightest  action.  The  man,  for  all 
his  restless  activity,  appeared  to  be  without  excess  or 
exaggeration  when  it  was  a  matter  of  practical  detail. 
He  apparently  employed  his  whole  efficient  and  enter 
prising  mind  on  the  incident  of  the  bird. 

"The  wings  aren't  broken,"' he  said  presently,  lifting 
his  head,  "but  it  is  weak  from  hunger  and  exhaustion," 
and  he  rang  the  bell  for  Abijah.  "  Rice  and  water  and  a 
warm  basket,"  he  ordered  when  the  old  negro  appeared. 
"You  had  better  keep  it  in  the  house  until  it  recovers." 
Then  dismissing  the  subject,  he  turned  back  to  Stephen. 

"Well,  I  am  glad  to  see  you,  Mr.  Culpeper,"  he  said. 
"You  had  a  hard  beginning,  but,  as  they  used  to  tell 
me  when  I  was  a  kid,  a  hard  beginning  makes  a  good 
ending." 

For  the  first  time  a  smile  softened  his  face,  and  the 
roving  blue  gleam  danced  blithely  in  his  eyes.  A  mo 
ment  before  the  young  man  had  thought  the  Governor's 
face  harsh  and  ugly.  Now  he  remembered  that  the 
Judge  had  said  "the  man  was  not  half  bad  to  look 
at  if  you  caught  him  smiling."  Yes,  he  had  a 
charm  of  his  own,  and  that  charm  had  swept  him  for 
ward  over  every  obstacle  to  the  place  he  had  reached. 
A  single  gift,  indefinable  yet  unerring — the  ability  to 
make  men  believe  absurdities,  as  John  Benham  had 
once  said — and  the  material  disadvantages  of  poverty 
and  ignorance  were  brushed  aside  like  trivial  impedi 
ments.  A  strange  power,  and  a  dangerous  one  in  un 
scrupulous  hands,  the  young  man  reflected. 

"I  remember  your  face,"  pursued  the  Governor, 
while  his  smile  faded — was  brevity,  after  all,  the  secret 
of  its  magic?  "You  were  at  one  of  my  speeches  last 
autumn,  and  you  sat  in  the  front  row,  I  think.  I  recall 


GIDEON  VETCH  25 

you  because  you  were  the  only  person  in  the  audience 
who  looked  bored." 

"I  was."  Frankness  called  for  frankness.  "I  am  not 
keen  about  speeches." 

"Not  even  when  Benham  speaks?"  The  voice  was 
gay,  but  through  it  all  there  rang  the  unmistakable  tone 
of  authority,  of  conscious  power.  There  was  one 
person,  Stephen  inferred,  who  had  never  from  the 
beginning  disparaged  or  ridiculed  Gideon  Vetch,  and 
that  person  was  Gideon  Vetch  himself.  John  Benham 
had  once  said  that  the  man  was  a  mere  posturer — but 
John  Benham  was  wrong. 

"Oh,  well,  you  see,  Benham  is  different,"  replied  the 
young  man  as  delicately  as  he  could.  "He  is  apt  to 
say  only  what  I  think,  you  know." 

So  far  there  had  been  no  breach  of  good  taste  in  the 
Governor's  manner,  no  warning  reminder  of  an  origin 
that  was  certainly  obscure  and  presumably  low,  no 
stale,  dust-laden  odours  of  the  circus  ring.  He  had 
looked  and  spoken  as  any  man  of  Stephen's  acquaint 
ance  might  have  done,  facetiously,  it  is  true,  but  with 
out  ostentation  or  vulgarity.  When  the  break  came, 
therefore,  it  was  the  more  shocking  to  the  younger  man 
because  he  had  been  so  imperfectly  prepared  for  it. 

"And  because  he  is  different,  of  course  you  think  he'd 
make  a  better  Governor  than  I  shall,"  said  Gideon 
Vetch  abruptly.  "That  is  the  way  with  you  fellows 
who  have  ossified  in  the  old  political  parties.  You 
never  see  a  change  in  time  to  make  ready  for  it.  You 
wait  until  it  knocks  you  in  the  head,  and  then  you  wake 
up  and  grumble.  Now,  I've  been  on  the  way  for  the 
last  thirty  years  or  so,  but  you  never  once  so  much  as 
got  wind  of  me.  You  think  I've  just  happened  because 


26  ONE  MAN  IN  HIS  TIME 

of  too  much  electricity  in  the  air,  like  a  thunderbolt  or 
something;  but  you  haven't  even  looked  back  to  find 
out  whether  you  are  right  or  wrong.  Talk  about  public 
spirit!  Why,  there  isn't  an  ounce  of  live  public  spirit 
left  among  you,  in  spite  of  all  the  moonshine  your  man 
Benham  talks  about  the  healing  virtues  of  tradition  and 
the  sacred  taboo  of  your  political  Pharisees.  There 
wasn't  one  of  you  that  didn't  hate  like  the  devil  to  see 
me  Governor  of  Virginia — and  yet  how  many  of  you 
took  the  trouble  to  find  out  what  I  am  made  of,  or  to 
understand  what  I  mean?  Did  you  even  take  the 
trouble  to  go  to  the  polls  and  vote  against  me?" 

Though  Stephen  flushed  scarlet,  he  held  his  ground 
bravely.  It  was  true  that  he  had  not  voted — he  hated 
the  whole  sordid  business  of  politics — but  then,  who 
had  ever  suspected  for  a  minute  that  Gideon  Vetch 
would  be  elected?  His  brief  liking  for  the  man  had 
changed  suddenly  to  exasperation.  It  seemed  in 
credible  to  him  that  any  Governor  of  Virginia  should 
display  so  open  a  disregard  of  the  ordinary  rules  of 
courtesy  and  hospitality.  To  drag  in  their  political 
differences  at  such  a  time,  when  he  had  come  beneath 
the  other's  roof  merely  to  render  him  an  unavoidable 
service!  To  stoop  to  the  pettifogging  sophistry  of  the 
agitator  simply  because  his  opponent  had  reluctantly 
yielded  him  an  opportunity! 

"Well,  I  heard  you  speak,  but  that  didn't  change 
me!"  he  retorted  with  a  smile. 

The  Governor  laughed,  and  the  sincerity  of  his 
amusement  was  evident  even  to  Stephen.  "Could 
anything  short  of  a  blasting  operation  change  you 
traditional  Virginians?"  he  inquired. 

His  face  was  turned  to  the  fire,  and  the  young  man 


GIDEON  VETCH  27 

felt  while  he  watched  him  that  a  piercing  light  was 
shed  on  his  character.  It  was  as  if  Stephen  saw  his 
opponent  from  an  entirely  fresh  point  of  view,  as  if 
he  beheld  him  for  the  first  time  with  the  sharp  clearness 
which  the  flash  of  his  anger  produced.  The  very 
absence  of  all  sense  of  dignity  impressed  him  suddenly 
as  the  most  tremendous  dignity  a  human  being  could 
attain — the  unconscious  dignity  of  natural  forces — of 
storms  and  fire  and  war  and  pestilence.  Because  the 
man  never  thought  of  how  he  appeared,  he  appeared 
always  impregnable. 

"I  shall  not  argue,"  said  the  young  man,  with  a  smile 
which  he  endeavoured  to  make  easy  and  natural.  "  The 
time  for  argument  is  over.  You  played  trumps." 

Vetch  laughed.  "And  it  wasn't  my  last  card,"  he 
answered  bluntly. 

"The  game  isn't  finished."  Though  Stephen's  voice 
was  light  it  held  a  quiver  of  irritation.  "He  laughs 
best  who  laughs  last."  The  other  had  started  the  row, 
and,  by  Jove,  he  would  give  him  as  much  as  he  wanted ! 
He  recalled  suddenly  the  charges  that  there  was  more 
than  the  customary  political  log-rolling — that  there 
were  mysterious  "discreditable  dealings"  in  the  Gover 
nor's  election  to  office. 

But  it  appeared  in  a  minute  that  Gideon  Vetch  was 
adequate  to  any  demand  which  the  occasion  might 
develop.  Already  Stephen  was  beginning  to  regard 
him  less  as  a  man  than  as  an  energetic  idea,  as  activity 
incarnate. 

"If  you  mean  to  imply  that  the  laugh  may  be  on  me 
at  the  last,"  he  returned,  while  the  points  of  blue  light 
seemed  to  pierce  Stephen  like  arrows — no,  like  gimlets, 
"well,  you're  wrong  about  one  part  of  it — for  if  that 


28  ONE  MAN  IN  HIS  TIME 

ever  happens,  I'll  laugh  with  you  because  of  the  sheei 
rotten  irony." 

For  the  first  time  the  other  noticed  how  the  Governo: 
was  dressed — in  a  suit  of  some  heavy  brown  stuff  whicl 
looked  as  if  it  had  been  sprinkled  and  needed  pressing 
He  wore  a  green  tie  and  a  striped  shirt  of  the  conspicu 
ous  kind  that  Stephen  hated.  Though  the  younge 
man  was  keenly  critical  of  clothes,  and  persevering!;* 
informed  himself  regarding  the  smallest  details  o 
fashion,  he  acknowledged  now  that  he  had  at  last  me 
a  man  who  appeared  to  wear  his  errors  of  dress  a 
naturally  as  he  wore  his  errors  of  opinion.  The  fuzz? 
brown  stuff,  the  green  tie  with  red  spots,  the  stripec 
shirt — was  it  blue  or  purple? — all  became  as  much  a  par 
of  Gideon  Vetch  as  the  storm-ruffled  plumage  was  par 
of  an  eagle.  If  the  misguided  man  had  attired  himsel 
in  a  toga,  he  would  have  carried  the  Mantle  withou 
dignity  perhaps,  but  certainly  with  picturesqueness. 

"I'll  hold  you  to  your  promise — or  threat,"  sai( 
Stephen  lightly,  as  he  turned  from  the  Governor  to  hi 
daughter.  Why,  in  thunder,  he  asked  himself,  had  h 
stayed  so  long?  What  was  there  about  the  fellow  tha 
held  one  in  spite  of  oneself?  "I  hope  you  will  be  a] 
right  again  in  a  few  days,"  he  said  formally  as  his  eye 
met  Patty's  upraised  glance.  In  the  warm  room  all  th 
glamour  of  the  twilight — and  of  that  hidden  countr 
within  his  mind — had  faded  from  her.  She  looke< 
fresh  and  blooming  and  merely  commonplace,  h 
thought.  A  brief  half  hour  ago  he  had  felt  that  he  wa 
in  danger  of  losing  his  head;  now  his  rational  part  was  ii 
the  ascendant,  and  his  future  appeared  pleasantl; 
tranquil.  Then  the  girl  smiled  that  faint  inscrutabl 
smile  of  hers,  and  the  disturbing  green  rays  shot  fron 


GIDEON  VETCH  29 

her  eyes.  A  thrill  of  interest  stirred  his  pulses  while 
something  held  him  there  against  his  will  and  his  better 
judgment,  as  if  he  were  caught  fast  in  the  steel  spring  of 
a  trap. 

"Oh,  that's  nothing,"  replied  Patty,  with  her  air  of 
mockery.  "If  there  were  no  worse  things  than  that!" 

He  did  not  hold  out  his  hand,  though  there  was  a 
flutter  toward  him  of  her  fingers — pretty  fingers  they 
were  for  a  girl  with  no  blood  that  one  could  mention  in 
public.  There  was  a  faint  hope  in  his  mind  that  he 
might  still  vanish  unthanked  and  undetained.  The 
one  quality  in  father  and  daughter  which  had  arrested 
his  favourable  attention — the  quality  of  "a  good  sport" 
— would  probably  aid  in  his  escape. 

"Drop  in  some  evening,  and  we'll  have  a  talk,"  said 
the  Governor  in  his  slightly  theatrical  but  extremely 
confident  manner,  "there  are  things  I'd  like  to  say  to 
you.  You  are  a  lawyer,  if  I  remember,  in  Judge 
Horatio  Page's  firm,  and  you  were  in  the  war  from  the 
beginning." 

Stephen  smiled.  "Not  quite."  They  were  at  the 
front  door,  and  all  hope  of  escaping  into  the  desirable  ob 
scurity  from  which  he  had  sprung  fled  from  his  mind. 

"He  is  a  great  old  boy,  the  Judge,"  resumed  Gideon 
Vetch  blandly,  "I  had  a  talk  with  him  one  day  before 
the  elections,  when  you  other  fellows  were  sitting  back 
like  a  lot  of  lunatics  and  waiting  for  the  Democratic 
primaries  to  put  things  over.  He  is  the  only  one  in  the 
whole  bunch  of  you  who  stopped  shouting  long  enough 
to  hear  w^hat  I  had  to  say.  I  like  him,  sir,  and  if  there 
is  one  thing  you  will  never  find  me  doing  it  is  liking  the 
wrong  man.  I  may  not  know  Greek,  but  I  can  read 


men." 


30  ONE  MAN  IN  HIS  TIME 

The  front  door  was  open,  and  the  blast  of  cold  air 
dispersed  all  the  foolish  fancies  that  had  gathered  in 
Stephen's  brain.  Beyond  the  fountain  and  the  gate  he 
could  see  the  broad  road  through  the  Square  and  the 
dark  majestic  figure  of  Washington  on  horseback.  The 
electric  signs  were  blazing  on  the  roofs  of  the  shops  and 
hotels  which  had  driven  the  original  dwelling  houses  out 
of  the  neighbouring  streets. 

Turning  as  he  was  descending  the  steps,  the  young 
man  looked  into  the  Governor's  face.  "Are  you  sure 
that  you  read  Julius  Gershom  correctly?"  he  inquired. 

For  a  minute — it  could  not  have  been  longer — the 
Governor  did  not  reply.  Was  he  surprised  for  once 
into  open  discomfiture,  or  was  his  nimble  wit  engaged 
in  framing  a  plausible  answer?  Within  the  house, 
where  so  much  was  disappointing  and  incongruous, 
Stephen  had  not  felt  the  lack  of  harmony  between 
Gideon  Vetch  and  his  surroundings;  but  against  the 
fine  proportions  and  the  serene  stateliness  of  the  ex 
terior,  the  Governor's  figure  appeared  aggressively 
modern. 

"Julius  Gershom!"  repeated  Vetch.  "Well,  yes, 
I  think  I  know  my  Julius.  May  I  ask  if  you  do?" 
The  ironical  humour  which  flashed  like  a  sharp  light 
over  his  countenance  played  with  the  idea. 

"Not  by  choice."  Stephen  looked  back  laughing. 
There  was  one  thing  to  be  said  in  the  Governor's 
favour — he  invited  honesty  and  he  knew  how  to  re 
ceive  it.  "But  I  read  of  him  in  the  newspapers  when 
I  cannot  avoid  it.  He  does  some  dirty  work,  doesn't 
he?" 

Again  the  Governor  paused  before  replying.  There 
was  a  curious  gravity  about  his  consideration  of  Ger- 


GIDEON  VETCH  31 

shorn  in  spite  of  the  satirical  tone  of  his  responses. 
Was  it  possible  that  he  was  the  one  man  in  town  who  did 
not  treat  the  fellow  as  a  ridiculous  farce? 

"If  by  dirty  work  you  mean  the  clearing  away  of 
obstacles — well,  somebody  has  to  do  it,  hasn't  he?" 
asked  Gideon  Vetch.  "If  you  want  a  clean  street  to 
walk  on,  you  must  hire  somebody  to  shovel  away  the 
slush.  It  is  true  that  we  put  Ger shorn  to  shovelling 
slush — and  you  complain  of  his  methods!  Well,  I 
admit  that  he  may  have  been  a  trifle  too  zealous  about 
it;  he  may  have  spattered  things  a  bit  more  than  was 
necessary,  but  after  all,  he  got  some  of  the  mud  out  of 
the  way,  didn't  he?  There  are  people,"  he  added,  "  who 
believe  that  the  wind  he  raised  swept  me  into  office." 

"I  object  to  his  methods,"  insisted  Stephen,  "be 
cause  they  seem  to  me  dishonest." 

"Perhaps."  The  blue  eyes — how  could  he  have 
thought  them  gray? — had  grown  quizzical.  "But 
he  wasn't  moving  in  the  best  company,  you  know.  He 
who  sups  with  the  Devil  must  fish  with  a  long  spoon." 

"You  mean  that  you  defend  that  sort  of  thing 
— that  you  openly  stand  for  it?" 

"I  stand  for  nothing,  sir,"  replied  Gideon  Vetch 
sharply,  "except  justice.  I  stand  for  a  square  deal 
all  round,  and  I  stand  against  the  exploitation  or  op 
pression  of  any  class.  This  is  what  I  stand  for,  and 
I  have  stood  for  it  ever  since  I  was  a  small,  gray,  scared 
rabbit  of  a  creature  dodging  under  hedgerows." 

It  was  the  bombastic  sophistry  again,  Stephen  told 
himself,  but  he  met  it  without  subterfuge  or  evasion. 
"And  you  believe  that  such  people  as  Ger  shorn  can 
serve  the  cause  of  justice  through  dishonest  means?" 
he  demanded. 


32  ONE  MAN  IN  HIS  TIME 

"I'll  answer  that  some  day;  but  it's  a  long  answer, 
and  I  can't  speak  it  out  here  in  the  cold,"  responded  the 
Governor,  while  his  blustering  manner  grew  sober. 
"Gershom  is  a  politician,  you  see,  and  I  am  not.  You 
may  laugh,  but  it  is  the  Gospel  truth.  I  am  a  reformer, 
and  all  I  care  about  is  pushing  on  the  idea.  I  use  any 
tools  that  I  find;  and  one  of  the  greatest  of  reformers 
has  said  that  he  was  sometimes  obliged  to  use  bad  ones. 
If  I  find  good  ones,  so  much  the  better;  if  bad — well, 
it  is  all  in  the  day's  job.  But  the  cause  is  what  matters 
— the  thing  you  are  making,  not  the  implements  with 
which  it  is  made.  You  dislike  my  methods  of  work,  but 
you  must  admit  that  by  the  only  test  that  counts, 
the  test  of  achievement,  they  have  proved  to  be  sound. 
I  have  got  somewhere;  not  all  the  way;  but  still 
somewhere.  Without  advertisement,  without  patron 
age,  without  a  cent  I  could  call  my  own,  I  put  my  wares 
on  the  market.  I  became  Governor  of  Virginia  in 
spite  of  everything  you  did,  or  did  not  do,  to  prevent 
it."  There  was  a  strange  effectiveness  in  the  sim 
plicity  of  the  man's  speech.  It  was  natural;  it  was 
racy;  it  was  like  nothing  that  Stephen  had  ever  heard 
before.  He  wondered  if  it  could  be  traced  back  to  the 
phraseology  of  the  circus?  "Of  course  you  think  I 
am  an  extremist,"  concluded  Gideon  Vetch  abruptly, 
"but  before  you  are  as  old  as  I  am  you  will  have  learned 
that  the  only  way  to  get  half  a  loaf  is  to  ask  for  a  whole 
one.  Come  again,  and  I'll  talk  to  you." 

"Yes,  I'll  come  again,"  Stephen  answered,  and  he 
knew  that  he  should.  Whether  he  willed  it  or  not  he 
would  be  drawn  back  by  the  Governor's  irresistible 
influence.  The  man  had  aroused  in  him  an  intense, 
a  devouring  curiosity.  He  wanted  to  know  his  thoughts 


GIDEON  VETCH  33 

and  his  life,  the  mystery  of  his  birth,  of  his  upbringing, 
of  his  privations  and  denials.  Above  all  he  wanted 
to  know  why  he  had  succeeded,  what  peculiar  gift 
had  brought  him  out  of  obscurity,  and  had  given  him 
the  ability  to  use  men  and  circumstances  as  if  they 
were  tools  in  his  hands. 

When  the  young  man  ran  down  the  steps  there  was  a 
pleasant  excitement  tingling  in  his  veins,  as  if  he  were 
feeling  the  glow  of  forbidden  wine.  Turning  beside 
the  fountain,  he  glanced  back  as  the  Governor  was  clos 
ing  the  door,  and  in  his  vision  of  the  lighted  interior 
he  saw  Patty  Vetch  darting  airily  across  the  hall.  So 
it  was  nothing  more  than  a  hoax!  She  hadn't  hurt  her 
self  in  the  least.  She  had  merely  made  a  laughing-stock 
of  him  for  the  amusement  doubtless  of  her  obscure 
acquaintances!  For  an  instant  anger  held  him  mo 
tionless;  then  turning  quickly  he  walked  rapidly  past 
the  fountain  to  the  open  gate. 

The  snow  was  dimly  lighted  on  the  long  slope  to 
the  library;  and  straight  ahead,  in  the  circle  beneath 
the  statue  of  Washington,  the  bronze  silhouette  of  a 
great  Virginian  stood  sharply  cut  against  the  luminous 
haze  of  the  street.  From  the  chimney-stack  of  a  fac 
tory  near  the  river  a  wreath  of  gray  smoke  was  flung 
over  the  tree-tops,  where  it  broke  and  drifted  in  feath 
ery  garlands.  Across  the  road  a  group  of  three  trees 
was  delicately  etched,  with  each  separate  branch  and 
twig,  on  the  slate-coloured  evening  sky. 

He  had  passed  through  the  gate  when  a  voice  speak 
ing  suddenly  at  his  side  caused  him  to  start  and  stop 
short  in  his  walk.  A  moment  before  he  had  fancied 
himself  alone;  he  had  heard  no  footsteps;  and  the  place 
from  where  the  words  came  was  a  mere  vague  blur  in 


34  ONE  MAN  IN  HIS  TIME 

the  shadows.  There  was  something  uncanny  in  the 
muffled  approach,  and  the  sensation  it  produced  on  his 
nerves  was  like  the  shock  he  used  to  feel  as  a  child 
when  his  hand  was  unexpectedly  touched  in  the 
dark. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  he  said  to  the  vague  shape 
at  the  foot  of  a  tree.  "Did  you  speak  to  me?" 

The  shadows  divided,  and  what  seemed  to  him  the 
edge  of  darkness  moved  forward  into  the  dimly  lighted 
space  at  his  side.  He  saw  now  that  it  was  the  figure 
of  a  woman  in  a  long  black  cloak,  with  the  dilapi 
dated  remains  of  a  mourning  veil  hanging  from  her 
small  bonnet.  As  she  came  toward  him  he  was 
stirred  first  by  an  impulse  of  pity  and  immediately 
afterward  by  a  violent  repulsion.  In  her  whole  figure 
there  were  the  tragic  signs  of  poverty  and  desperation; 
but  it  was  the  horror  of  her  eyes,  he  told  himself, 
that  he  should  never  forget.  They  were  eyes  that 
would  haunt  his  sleep  that  night  like  the  face  of  the 
drowned  man  in  the  nursery  rhyme. 

"Will  you  tell  me,"  asked  the  woman  hurriedly, 
"who  lives  in  this  house?" 

It  was  a  queer  question,  he  thought,  for  any  one  to 
ask  in  the  Square;  but  she  was  probably  a  stranger. 

"This  is  the  Governor's  house,"  he  answered  cour 
teously.  "I  suppose  you  are  a  stranger  in  town." 

"I  got  here  a  few  hours  ago,  and  I  came  out  for  a 
breath  of  air.  I  was  four  days  and  nights  on  the  way." 

To  this  he  made  no  reply,  and  he  was  about  to  pass 
on  again,  when  her  voice  arrested  him. 

"You  wouldn't  mind  telling  me,  would  you,  the 
Governor's  name?" 

"Not  in  the  least.     His  name  is  Gideon  Vetch." 


GIDEON  VETCH  35 

"Gideon  Vetch?"  She  repeated  the  name  slowly,  as 
if  she  were  impressing  it  on  her  memory.  "That's  a 
queer  name  for  a  Governor.  Was  he  born  in  this 
town?" 

"I  think  not." 

"And  who  lives  with  him?  I  saw  a  girl  come  out 
awhile  ago.  Is  she  his  daughter,  perhaps — or  his  wife — 
though  she  looked  young  for  that." 

"It  must  have  been  his  daughter.  His  wife  is  not 
living." 

"Is  she  his  only  child?  Or  has  he  others?"  There 
was  a  quiver  of  suspense  in  her  voice,  and  turning  he 
looked  at  her  more  closely.  Was  it  possible  that  she 
had  known  Gideon  Vetch  in  his  obscure  past? 

"She  is  his  only  child,"  he  replied. 

"Well,  that's  nice  for  her.  Is  she  pretty?"  An  odd 
question  if  it  had  been  put  by  a  man;  but  he  had  been 
trained  to  accept  the  fact  that  women  are  different. 

"Yes,  you  would  call  her  pretty."  As  he  spoke  the 
words  there  flashed  through  his  mind  the  picture  of 
Patty  Vetch  as  he  had  seen  her  that  afternoon,  in  her 
red  cape  and  her  small  hat  with  the  red  wings,  against 
the  snowy  hill  under  the  overhanging  bough  of  the 
sycamore.  Was  she  really  pretty,  or  was  it  only  the 
witchery  of  her  surroundings?  Now  that  he  was  out 
of  her  presence  the  attraction  had  faded.  He  was 
still  smarting  from  the  memory  of  that  dancing  figure. 

"Well,  it's  a  fine  house,"  said  the  woman,  "and  it 
looks  large  for  just  two  people.  I  thank  you  for  telling 


me." 


The  pathos  of  her  words  appealed  to  the  generous 
chivalry  of  his  nature.  He  felt  sorry  for  her  and  won 
dered  if  he  might  offer  her  money. 


36  ONE  MAN  IN  HIS  TIME 

"I  hope  you  found  lodgings,"  he  said. 

"Yes,  I've  found  a  room  near  here — on  Governor 
Street,  I  think  they  call  it." 

"And  you  are  not  in  want?  You  do  not  need  any 
help?" 

She  shook  her  head  while  the  rusty  mourning  veil 
shrouded  her  features.  "Not  yet,"  she  answered. 
"I'm  not  a  beggar  yet."  Though  her  tone  was  not 
well-bred,  he  realized  that  she  was  neither  as  unedu 
cated  nor  as  degraded  as  he  had  at  first  believed. 

"I  am  glad  of  that,"  he  responded;  and  then  lifting 
his  hat  again,  he  hurried  quickly  away  from  her  up  the 
road  beneath  the  few  old  linden  trees  that  were  left 
of  an  avenue.  Glancing  back  as  he  reached  the  Capi 
tol  building,  he  saw  her  black  figure  moving  cautiously 
over  the  snow  toward  one  of  the  gates  of  the  Square. 

"That  was  a  nightmare,"  he  thought,  "and  now  for 
the  pleasant  dream.  I'll  go  to  the  old  print  shop  and 
see  my  Cousin  Corinna." 


CHAPTER  III 

CORINNA  OF  THE  OLD  PRINT  SHOP 

As  STEPHEN  left  the  Square  there  floated  before 
him  a  picture  of  the  old  print  shop  in  Franklin  Street, 
where  Corinna  Page  (still  looking  at  forty-eight  as  if 
she  had  stepped  out  of  a  portrait  by  Romney)  sat  amid 
the  rare  prints  which  she  never  expected  to  sell.  After 
an  unfortunate  early  marriage,  her  husband  had  been 
Kent  Page,  her  first  cousin,  she  had  accepted  her 
recent  widowhood,  if  not  with  relief,  well,  obviously 
with  resignation.  For  years  she  had  wandered  about 
the  world  with  her  father,  Judge  Horatio  Lancaster 
Page,  who  had  once  been  Ambassador  to  Great  Brit 
ain.  Now,  having  recently  returned  from  France, 
she  had  settled  in  a  charming  country  house  on  the 
Three  Chopt  Road,  and  had  opened  the  ridiculous  old 
print  shop,  a  shop  that  never  sold  an  engraving,  in 
a  quaint  place  in  Franklin  Street.  She  had  rented 
out  the  upper  floors  to  a  half-dozen  tenants,  had  built 
a  couple  of  rooms  beside  the  kitchen  for  the  caretaker, 
and  had  planted  two  pyramidal  cedars  and  a  hedge 
of  box  in  the  short  front  yard.  "A  shop  is  the  only 
place  where  you  may  have  calls  from  people  who  haven't 
been  introduced  to  you,"  she  had  said;  and  of  course 
as  long  as  she  had  money  to  throw  away,  what  did  it 
matter,  Stephen  reflected,  whether  she  ever  sold  a 
picture  or  not?  At  forty-eight  she  was  lovelier,  he 
thought,  than  ever;  she  would  always  be  lovelier  than 
any  one  else  if  she  lived  to  be  ninety.  There  wasn't 

37 


38  ONE  MAN  IN  HIS  TIME 

a  girl  in  his  set  who  could  compare  with  her,  who  had 
the  glow  and  charm,  the  flame-like  inner  radiance;  there 
wasn't  one  who  had  the  singing  heart  of  Corinna.  Yes, 
that  was  the  phrase  he  had  been  trying  to  remember, 
trite  as  it  was — the  singing  heart — that  was  Corinna. 
She  had  had  a  hard  life,  he  knew,  in  spite  of  her  beauty 
and  her  wealth;  yet  she  had  never  lost  the  quality  of 
youth,  the  very  essence  of  gaiety  and  adventure.  When 
he  thought  of  her,  Patty  Vetch  appeared  merely  cheap 
and  common,  though  he  felt  instinctively  that  Corinna 
would  have  liked  Patty  if  she  had  seen  her  in  the  Square 
with  the  pigeon.  It  was  a  part  of  Corinna's  charm 
perhaps,  certainly  a  part  of  her  enjoyment  of  life 
that  she  liked  almost  every  one — every  one,  that  is, 
except  Rose  Stribling,  whom  she  quite  frankly  hated. 
But,  then,  people  said  that  Rose  Stribling,  twelve  years 
younger  than  Corinna  and  as  handsome  as  a  Red 
Cross  poster,  had  run  too  often  across  K!ent  Page  in 
the  first  year  of  the  war.  Kent  Page  had  died  in  France 
of  Spanish  influenza  before  he  ever  saw  a  trench  or  a 
battlefield;  and  Rose  Stribling,  all  blue  eyes  and  white 
linen,  had  nursed  him  at  the  last.  At  that  time  Corin 
na  was  in  America,  and  she  hadn't  so  much  as  looked 
at  Kent  for  years;  but  a  woman  has  a  long  memory 
for  emotions,  and  she  is  capable  of  resenting  the  loss 
of  a  husband  who  is  no  longer  hers.  Rumour,  of 
course,  nothing  more;  yet  the  fact  remained  that 
Corinna,  who  liked  all  the  world,  hated  Rose  Stribling. 
It  was  the  one  flaw  in  Corinna's  perfection;  it  was  the 
black  patch  on  the  stainless  cheek,  which  had  always 
made  her  adorable  to  Stephen.  Like  the  snow-white 
lock  waving  back  from  her  forehead,  it  intensified  the 
youth  in  her  face.  He  had  often  wondered  if  she  could 


CORINNA  OF  THE  OLD  PRINT  SHOP      39 

have  been  half  so  lovely  when  she  was  a  girl,  before 
the  fault  shadows  and  the  tender  little  lines  lent  depth 
and  mystery  to  her  eyes,  and  the  single  white  lock  swept 
back  amid  the  powdered  dusk  of  her  hair. 

While  the  young  man  walked  rapidly  up  Franklin 
Street,  he  saw  before  him  the  long  delightful  room  be 
yond  the  pyramidal  cedars  and  the  hedge  of  box.  He 
saw  the  ruddy  glow  of  the  fire  mingling  with  the  paler 
light  of  amber  lamps,  and  this  mingled  radiance  shin 
ing  on  the  rich  rugs,  the  few  old  brocades,  and  the  rare 
English  prints  which  covered  the  walls.  He  saw  wide- 
open  creamy  roses  in  alabaster  bowls  which  were  scat 
tered  everywhere,  on  tables,  on  stools,  on  window- 
seats,  and  on  the  rich  carving  of  the  Spanish  desk  in 
one  corner.  Against  the  curtains  of  gold  silk  there  was 
the  bough  of  twisted  pine  he  had  broken,  and  against 
the  pine  branch  stood  the  figure  of  Corinna  in  her 
gown  of  soft  red,  which  melted  like  a  spray  of  autumn 
foliage  into  the  colours  of  the  room.  She  was  a  tall 
woman,  with  a  glorious  head  and  eyes  that  reminded 
Stephen  of  a  forest  pool  in  autumn.  Who  had  first 
said  of  her,  he  wondered,  that  she  looked  like  an  Oc 
tober  morning? 

As  he  approached  the  shop  the  glow  shone  out  on  him 
through  the  dull  gold  curtains,  and  he  traced  the 
crooked  pine  bough  sweeping  across  the  thin  silk  back 
ground  like  the  bold  free  sketch  of  a  Japanese  print. 
When  he  rang  the  bell  a  minute  later,  the  door  was 
opened  by  Corinna,  who  was  holding  a  basket  of  mari 
golds. 

"We  were  just  going,"  she  said,  "as  soon  as  I  had 
put  these  flowers  in  water." 

She  drew  back  into  the  room,  bending  over  the  low 


40  ONE  MAN  IN  HIS  TIME 

brown  bowl  that  she  was  filling,  while  Stephen  went 
over  to  the  fire,  and  greeted  the  two  old  men  who  were 
sitting  in  deep  arm  chairs  on  either  side  of  the  hearth. 
It  was  like  stepping  into  another  world,  he  thought, 
as  he  inhaled  a  full  breath  of  the  warmth  and  the 
fragrance  of  roses;  it  was  as  if  a  door  into  a  dream 
had  suddenly  opened,  and  he  had  passed  out  of  the 
night  and  the  cold  into  a  place  where  all  was  colour 
and  fragrance  and  pleasant  magic.  The  other  was 
real  life — life  for  all  but  the  happy  few,  he  found  him 
self  thinking — this  was  merely  the  enchanted  fairy- 
ring  where  children  played  at  making  believe. 

"I  hoped  I'd  catch  you,"  he  said,  stretching  out 
his  hands  to  the  log  fire.  "I  felt  somehow  that  you 
hadn't  gone,  late  as  it  is."  While  he  spoke  he  was 
thinking,  not  of  Corinna,  but  of  the  strange  woman 
he  had  left  in  the  Square.  Queer  how  that  incident 
had  bitten  into  his  mind.  Try  as  he  might  he  couldn't 
shake  himself  free  from  it. 

"Father  is  going  to  some  dreadful  public  dinner," 
answered  Corinna.  "I  stayed  with  him  here  so  he 
wouldn't  have  to  wait  at  the  club.  It  won't  matter 
about  me.  The  car  is  coming  for  me,  and  I  don't  dine 
until  eight.  Stay  awhile  and  we'll  talk,"  she  added 
with  her  cheerful  smile.  "I  haven't  seen  you  for  ages, 
and  you  look  as  if  you  had  something  to  teU  me." 

"I  have,"  he  said;  and  then  he  turned  from  her  to  the 
two  old  men  who  were  talking  drowsily  in  voices  that 
sounded  as  far  off  to  Stephen  as  the  murmuring  of 
bees  in  summer  meadows.  He  knew  that  it  was  real, 
that  it  was  the  life  he  had  always  lived,  and  yet  he 
couldn't  get  rid  of  the  feeling  that  Corinna  and  the  two 
old  men  and  the  charming  surroundings  were  all  part 


CORINNA  OF  THE  OLD  PRINT  SHOP      41 

of  a  play,  and  that  in  a  little  while  he  should  go  out  of 
the  theatre  and  step  back  among  the  sordid  actualities. 

"The  General  and  I  are  having  our  little  chat  be 
fore  dinner,"  said  Judge  JRage,  a  sufficiently  orna 
mental  old  gentleman  to  have  decorated  any  world 
or  any  fireside — imposing  and  distinguished  as  a  por 
trait  by  Sir  Thomas  Lawrence,  with  a  crown  of  silvery 
hair  and  the  shining  dark  eyes  of  his  daughter.  He 
still  carried  himself,  for  all  his  ironical  comment,  like 
an  ambassador  of  the  romantic  school.  "It  is  a  sad 
day  for  your  fighting  man,"  he  concluded  gaily,  "when 
the  only  stimulant  he  can  get  is  the  conversation  of  an 
old  fogy  like  me." 

"Your  fighting  man,"  old  General  Powhatan  Plum- 
mer,  who  hadn't  smelt  powder  for  more  than  half  a 
century,  chuckled  as  he  always  did  at  the  shrewd  and 
friendly  pleasantries  of  the  Judge.  He  was  a  jocular, 
tiresome,  gregarious  soul,  habitually  untidy,  creased 
and  rumpled,  who  was  always  thirsty,  but  who,  as 
the  Judge  was  accustomed  to  reply  when  Corinna  re 
monstrated,  "would  divide  his  last  julep  with  a  friend." 
The  men  had  been  companions  from  boyhood,  and 
were  still  inseparable.  For  the  same  delusion  makes 
strange  friendships,  and  the  General,  in  spite  of  his  ap 
pearance  of  damaged  reality,  also  inhabited  that  en 
chanted  fairy -ring  where  no  fact  ever  entered. 

With  the  bowl  of  marigolds  in  her  hands,  Corinna 
came  over  to  the  tea-table  and  stood  smiling  dreamily 
at  Stephen.  The  firelight  dancing  over  her  made  a 
riot  of  colour,  and  she  looked  the  image  of  happiness, 
though  the  young  man  knew  that  the  ephemeral  illusion 
was  created  by  the  red  of  her  gown  and  the  burnished 
gold  of  the  flowers. 


42  ONE  MAN  IN  HIS  TIME 

"John  Benham  sent  them  to  me  because  I  praised 
his  speech,"  she  said.  "Wasn't  it  nice  of  him?" 

"He  always  does  nice  things  when  one  doesn't  ex 
pect  them,"  he  answered. 

Corinna  laughed.  "Is  it  because  they  are  nice  that 
he  does  them?"  she  inquired  with  a  touch  of  malice. 
"Or  because  they  are  not  expected?" 

"I  didn't  mean  that."  There  was  a  shade  of  con 
fusion  in  Stephen's  tone.  "Benham  is  my  friend — 
my  best  friend  almost  though  he  is  so  much  older. 
There  isn't  a  man  living  whom  I  admire  more." 

"Yes,  I  know,"  replied  Corinna;  and  then — was  it 
in  innocence  or  in  malice? — she  asked  sweetly:  "Have 
you  seen  Alice  Rokeby  this  winter?" 

For  an  instant  Stephen  gazed  at  her  in  silence. 
Was  it  possible  that  she  had  not  heard  the  gossip 
about  Benham  and  Mrs.  Rokeby?  Was  she  trying 
to  mislead  him  by  an  appearance  of  flippancy?  Or 
was  there  some  deeper  purpose,  some  serious  attempt 
to  learn  the  truth  beneath  her  casual  question? 

"Only  once  or  twice,"  he  answered  at  last.  "She 
is  looking  badly  since  her  divorce.  Freedom  has  not 
agreed  with  her." 

Corinna  smiled;  but  the  transient  illumination  veiled 
rather  than  revealed  her  obscure  motives. 

"Perhaps,  like  our  Allies,  she  was  making  the  future 
safe  for  further  entanglements,"  she  observed.  "I  al 
ways  thought — everybody  thought  that  she  got  her 
divorce  in  order  to  marry  John  Benham." 

Frankly  perplexed,  he  gazed  wonderingly  into  her 
eyes.  He  knew  that  she  saw  a  great  deal  of  Benham; 
he  believed  that  their  friendship  had  developed  into 
a  deeper  emotion  on  Benham's  side  at  least;  and  it 


CORINNA  OF  THE  OLD  PRINT  SHOP      43 

seemed  to  him  unlike  Corinna,  who  was,  as  he  told 
himself,  the  most  loyal  soul  on  earth,  to  turn  such  an 
association  into  a  cynical  jest. 

"I  heard  that  too,"  he  replied  guardedly,  "but  of 
course  nobody  knows." 

There  was  really  nothing  else  that  he  could  answer. 
Though  he  could  discuss  Alice  Rokeby,  one  of  those 
vague,  sweet  women  who  seem  designed  by  Nature 
to  develop  the  sentiment  of  chivalry  in  the  breast  of 
man,  he  felt  that  it  would  be  disloyal  to  speak  lightly 
of  his  hero,  John  Benham.  "You  could  never  guess 
where  I've  been,"  he  said  with  relief  because  he  had 
got  rid  of  the  subject.  "I  might  as  well  tell  you  in  the 
beginning  that  I  have  just  left  the  Governor." 

"Gideon  Vetch!"  exclaimed  Corinna,  as  she  dropped 
into  a  chair  at  his  side.  "Why,  I  thought  you  were  as 
far  apart  as  the  poles!" 

"So  we  were  until  ten  minutes — no,  until  exactly  an 
hour  ago." 

"It  makes  my  blood  boil  when  I  think  of  that  circus 
rider  in  the  Governor's  mansion,"  said  the  General 
indignantly.  "Do  you  know  what  my  father  would 
have  called  that  fellow?  He  would  have  called  him  a 
common  scalawag — a  common  scalawag,  sir!" 

The  Judge  laughed  softly.  There  was  nothing,  as 
he  sometimes  observed,  that  flavoured  life  so  deli- 
ciously  as  a  keen  appreciation  of  comedy.  "Now,  I 
should  call  him  a  decidedly  uncommon  one,"  he  re 
marked.  "The  trouble  with  you,  my  dear  Powhatan, 
is  that  you  are  still  in  the  village  stage  of  the  social 
instinct.  In  your  proper  period,  when  we  Virginians 
were  merely  one  of  the  several  tribes  in  these  United 
States,  you  may  have  served  an  excellent  purpose; 


44  ONE  MAN  IN  HIS  TIME 

but  the  tribal  instinct  is  dying  out  with  the  village  stage. 
If  we  are  going  to  exist  at  all  outside  of  the  archaeological 

department  of  a  museum,  we  must  learn  to  accept . 

We  must  let  in  new  blood." 

"Do  you  mean  to  tell  me,  Horatio,"  blustered  the 
General,  "that  I've  got  to  let  in  the  blood  of  a  circus 
rider,  sir?" 

"Well,  that  depends.  I  haven't  made  up  my  mind 
about  Vetch.  He  may  be  only  froth,  or  he  may  be 
the  vital  element  that  we  need.  I  haven't  made  up 
my  mind,  but  I've  met  him  and  I  like  him.  Indeed,  I 
think  I  may  say  that  Gideon  and  I  are  friends.  We 
have  come  to  the  same  point  of  view,  it  appears,  by 
travelling  on  opposite  roads.  I  had  a  long  talk  with 
him  the  other  day,  and  I  found  that  we  think  alike 
about  a  number  of  things." 

"Think  alike  about  fiddlesticks!"  spluttered  the 
General,  while  he  spilled  over  his  waistcoat  the  water 
Corinna  had  given  him.  "Why,  the  fellow  ain't  even 
in  your  class,  sir!" 

"I  said  we  had  thoughts,  not  habits,  in  common,  Pow- 
hatan,"  rejoined  the  Judge  blandly.  "The  same  habits 
make  a  class,  but  the  same  thoughts  make  a  friendship." 

"He  told  me  he  had  talked  to  you,"  said  Stephen 
eagerly,  "and  I  wanted  to  know  what  your  impression 
was.  He  called  you  a  great  old  boy,  by  the  way." 

The  Judge,  who  could  wear  at  will  the  face  either  of 
Brutus  or  of  Antony,  became  at  once  the  genial  friend 
of  humanity .  '  'That  pleases  me  more  than  you  realize, ' ' 
he  said.  "I  have  a  suspicion  that  Gideon  knows  hu 
man  nature  about  as  thoroughly  as  our  General  here 
knows  the  battles  of  the  Confederacy." 

"I  confess  the  man  rather  gripped  me,"  rejoined 


CORINNA  OF  THE  OLD  PRINT  SHOP      45 

Stephen.  "There's  something  about  him,  personal 
ity  or  mere  play-acting,  that  catches  one  in  spite  of 
oneself." 

The  Judge  appeared  to  acquiesce.  "I  am  inclined 
to  think,"  he  observed  presently,  "that  the  quality 
you  feel  in  Vetch  is  simply  a  violent  candour.  Most 
people  give  you  truth  in  small  quantities;  but  Vetch 
pours  it  out  in  a  torrent.  He  offers  it  to  you  as  Pow- 
hatan  used  to  take  his  Bourbon  in  the  good  old  days 
before  the  Eighteenth  Amendment — straight  and  strong. 
I  used  to  tell  Powhatan  that  he'd  get  the  name  of  a 
drunkard  simply  because  he  could  stand  what  the  rest 
of  the  world  couldn't — and  I'll  say  as  much  for  our 
friend  Gideon." 

"Do  you  mean,  my  dear,"  inquired  Corinna  placidly, 
"that  the  Governor  is  honestly  dishonest?" 

The  Judge's  suavity  clothed  him  like  velvet.  "I 
know  nothing  about  his  honesty.  I  doubt  if  any  one 
does.  He  may  be  a  liar  and  yet  speak  the  truth,  I 
suppose,  from  unscrupulous  motives.  But  I  am  not 
maintaining  that  he  is  entirely  right,  you  understand 
— merely  that  like  the  rest  of  us  he  is  not  entirely 
wrong.  I  am  not  taking  sides,  you  know.  I  am  too  old 
to  fight  anybody's  battles — even  distressed  Virtue's." 

"Then  you  think — you  really  think  that  he  is  sin 
cere?"  asked  Stephen. 

"Sincere?  Well,  yes,  in  a  measure.  Nothing  ad 
vertises  one  so  widely  as  a  reputation  for  sincerity; 
and  the  man  has  a  positive  genius  for  self-advertise 
ment.  He  has  found  that  it  pays  in  politics  to  speak 
the  truth,  and  so  he  speaks  it  at  the  top  of  his  voice. 
It  takes  courage,  of  course,  and  I  am  ready  to  admit  that 
he  is  a  little  more  courageous  than  the  rest  of  us.  To 


46  ONE  MAN  IN  HIS  TIME 


that  extent,  I  should  say  that  he  has  the  advantage 
of  us." 

"Do  you  mean  to  imply, "  demanded  the  General 
wrathfully,  "that  a  common  circus  rider  like  that,  a 
rascally  revolutionist  into  the  bargain,  is  better  than 
this  lady  and  myself,  sir?" 

"Well,  hardly  better  than  Corinna,"  replied  the 
Judge.  "Indeed,  I  was  about  to  add  that  the  two 
most  candid  persons  I  know  are  Corinna  and  Vetch. 
There  is  a  good  deal  about  Vetch,  by  the  way,  that 
reminds  me  of  Corinna." 

"Father!"  gasped  Corinna.  "Stephen,  do  you  think 
he  has  gone  out  of  his  mind?" 

"That  is  the  first  sign  that  wisdom  has  broken  its 
cage,"  commented  her  father.  "No,  my  dear,  I  did 
not  mean  that  you  look  like  him;  you  are  far  hand 
somer.  I  meant  simply  that  you  both  habitually 
speak  the  truth,  and  because  you  speak  the  truth  the 
world  mistakes  you  for  a  successful  comedian  and  Vetch 
for  a  kind  of  political  Robin  Hood." 

"Well,  he  is  trying  to  hold  us  up  in  highwayman 
fashion,  isn't  he?"  asked  Corinna. 

"Does  it  look  that  way?"  inquired  the  Judge, 
with  his  beaming  smile  which  cast  an  edge  of  genial 
irony  on  everything  that  he  said.  "On  the  contrary, 
it  seems  to  me  that  Vetch  is  telling  us  the  things 
we  have  known  about  ourselves  for  a  very  long 
time.  He  says  the  world  might  be  a  better  place  if 
we  would  only  take  the  trouble  to  make  it  so;  if  we 
would  only  try  to  live  up  to  our  epitaphs,  I  believe 
he  once  remarked.  He  says  also,  I  understand,  that 
he  is  trying  to  climb  to  the  top  over  somebody  else; 
and  when  I  say  'he'  I  mean,  of  course,  his  order  or 


CORINNA  OF  THE  OLD  PRINT  SHOP      47 

his  class,  whatever  the  fashionable  phrase  is.  Now, 
unfortunately,  there  appears  to  be  but  one  way  of 
reaching  the  top  of  the  world,  doesn't  there? — and 
that  is  by  climbing  up  on  something  or  somebody. 
Even  you,  my  dear  Stephen,  who  occupy  that  high 
place,  merely  inherited  the  seat  from  somebody  who 
scrambled  up  there  a  few  centuries  ago.  Somebody 
else  probably  got  broken  shoulders  before  your  nimble 
progenitor  took  possession.  Of  course  I  am  willing 
to  admit  that  time  does  create  in  us  the  sense  of  a 
divine  right  in  anything  that  we  have  owned  for  a 
number  of  years,  as  if  our  inheritance  were  the  crown 
of  some  archaic  king.  I  myself  feel  that  strongly. 
If  it  came  to  the  point,  though  I  have  said  that  I  am 
too  old  to  fight  for  distressed  Virtue,  I  should  very 
likely  die  in  the  last  ditch  for  every  inch  of  land  and 
every  worthless  object  I  ever  owned.  When  Vetch 
talks  about  taxing  property  more  heavily  I  am  utterly 
and  openly  against  him  because  it  is  my  instinct  to  be. 
I  refuse  to  give  up  my  superfluous  luxuries  in  the 
cause  of  equal  justice  for  all,  and  I  shall  fight  against 
it  as  long  as  there  is  a  particle  of  fight  left  in  my 
bones.  But  because  I  am  against  him  there  is  no 
reason,  I  take  it,  why  I  shouldn't  enjoy  the  pleasure  of 
perceiving  his  point  of  view.  It  is  an  interesting  point 
of  view,  perhaps  the  more  interesting  because  we  think 
it  is  a  dangerous  one.  To  approach  it  is  like  rounding 
a  sharp  curve  at  high  speed." 

As  he  rose  to  his  feet  and  reached  for  his  walking 
stick,  Stephen  remembered  that  in  England  the  Judge 
was  supposed  to  have  the  fine  presence  and  the  flash 
ing  eagle  eyes  of  Gladstone.  Were  they  alike  also,  he 
wondered,  in  their  fantastic  mental  processes? 


48  ONE  MAN  IN  HIS  TIME 

"It's  time  for  me  to  go,  Corinna,"  said  the  old  man, 
stooping  to  kiss  his  daughter,  "so  I  sha'n't  see  you  until 
to-morrow."  Then  turning  to  Stephen,  he  added 
with  a  whimsical  smile,  "If  you  are  so  much  afraid  of 
Vetch,  why  don't  you  fight  him  with  his  own  weapons? 
What  were  you  doing,  you  and  John,  when  the  people 
voted  for  him?" 

"  To  tell  the  truth  nobody  ever  dreamed  that  he  would 
be  elected,"  replied  Stephen,  flushing.  "Who  would 
have  thought  that  an  independent  candidate  could  win 
over  both  parties?" 

The  Judge  had  moved  to  the  door,  and  he  looked 
back,  as  Stephen  finished,  with  a  dramatic  flourish  of 
his  long  white  hand.  "Well,  remember  next  time, 
my  dear  young  sir,"  he  answered,  "that  in  politics 
it  is  always  the  impossible  that  happens."  The  long 
white  hand  fell  caressingly  on  the  shoulders  of  old 
Powhatan  Plummer,  and  the  two  men  passed  out  of 
the  door  together. 

When  Stephen  turned  to  Corinna,  she  was  resting 
languidly  against  the  tapestry-covered  back  of  her 
chair,  while  the  firelight  flickering  in  her  eyes  changed 
them  to  the  deep  bronze  of  the  marigolds  on  the  table. 
With  her  slenderness,  her  grace,  her  brilliant  darkness, 
she  seemed  to  him  to  belong  in  one  of  the  English 
mezzotints  on  the  wall. 

"Did  you  buy  that  print  because  it  is  so  much  like 
you?"  he  asked,  pointing  to  an  engraving  after  Hopp- 
ner's  portrait  of  the  Duchess  of  Bedford. 

She  laughed  frankly.  "Every  one  asks  me  that.  I 
suppose  it  was  one  of  my  reasons." 

As  he  sat  down  again  in  front  of  the  fire,  his  eyes 
travelled  slowly  over  the  walls;  over  the  stipple  en- 


CORINNA  OF  THE  OLD  PRINT  SHOP      49 

gravings  of  Bartolozzi,  over  the  rich  mezzotints  of 
Valentine  Green  and  John  Raphael  Smith,  over  the 
bewitching  face  of  Lady  Hamilton  as  it  shone  back  at 
him  from  the  prints  of  John  Jones,  of  Cheesman,  of 
Henry  Meyer.  Was  not  Corinna's  place  among  those 
vanished  beauties  of  a  richer  age,  rather  than  among  the 
sour-faced  reformers  and  the  Gideon  Vetches  of  to-day? 
The  wonderful  tone  of  the  old  prints,  the  silvery  dusk, 
or  the  softly  glowing  colours  that  were  like  the  sunset 
of  another  century;  the  warmth  and  splendour  of  the 
few  brocades  she  had  picked  up  in  Italy;  the  suave 
religious  feeling  of  the  worn  red  velvet  from  some  church 
in  Florence;  the  candles  in  wrought-iron  sconces,  the 
shimmering  firelight  and  the  dreamy  fragrance  of  tea 
roses — all  these  things  together  made  him  think  sud 
denly  of  sunshine  over  the  Campagna  and  English  gar 
dens  in  the  month  of  May  and  the  burning  reds  and 
blues  and  golden  greens  of  the  Middle  Ages.  Corinna 
with  her  unfading  youth  became  a  part  of  all  the 
loveliness  that  he  had  ever  seen — of  all  beauty  every 
where. 

"I  haven't  had  a  chance  to  tell  you,"  she  said,  "that 
I  am  going  to  meet  the  Governor." 

"  Where?     At  the  Berkeleys' ?  " 

"Yes,  at  the  Berkeleys'  dinner  on  Thursday.  Are 
you  going?" 

He  laughed.  "Mrs.  Berkeley  called  me  up  this  morn 
ing  and  asked  me  if  I  would  take  somebody's  place. 
She  didn't  say  whose  place  it  was,  but  she  did  divulge 
the  fact  that  the  dinner  is  given  to  Vetch.  I  told  her 
I'd  come — that  I  was  so  used  to  taking  other  people's 
places  I  could  fill  six  at  the  same  time.  But  a  dinner 
to  Vetch!  I  wonder  why  she  is  doing  it?" 


50  ONE  MAN  IN  HIS  TIME 

"That's  easy.  Mr.  Berkeley  wants  something  from 
the  Governor.  I  don't  know  what  he  wants,  but  I  do 
know  that  whatever  it  is  he  wants  it  very  badly." 

"And  he  thinks  he'll  get  it  by  asking  him  to  dinner? 
There  seems  to  me  an  obvious  flaw  in  Berkeley's  rea 
soning.  I  doubt  if  Vetch  is  the  kind  of  man  who 
follows  when  you  hold  out  an  apple.  He  appears  to 
be  exactly  the  opposite,  and  I  think  he's  more  likely 
to  dash  off  than  to  come  when  he  is  called.  I  wonder, 
by  the  way,  if  they  are  going  to  have  Mrs.  Stribling?" 

"Rose  Stribling?"  A  gleam  of  anger  shone  in 
Corinna's  eyes.  "Why  should  that  interest  you?" 

"Oh,  they  say — at  least  Mrs.  Berkeley  says,  and  if 
there  is  any  misinformation  abroad  she  ought  to  be 
aware  of  it — that  Mrs.  Stribling's  latest  attachment  to 
her  train  is  the  Governor  himself." 

He  had  expected  his  gossip  to  arouse  Corinna,  and 
in  this  he  was  not  mistaken.  Springing  up  from  her 
relaxed  position,  she  sat  straight  and  unbending,  with 
her  indignant  eyes  on  his  face.  "Why,  I  thought  the 
war  had  cured  her." 

"The  war  was  not  a  cure;  it  was  merely  a  temporary 
drug  for  our  vanity,"  he  rejoined  gaily.  "It  didn't 
cure  me,  so  you  could  hardly  regard  it  as  a  remedy 
for  Mrs.  Stribling's  complaint.  I  imagine  coquetry 
is  a  more  obstinate  malady  even  than  priggishness, 
and,  Heaven  knows,  I  tried  hard  enough  to  get  rid  of 
that." 

"I  hoped  you  would,"  admitted  Corinna.  "But, 
dear  boy,  the  way  to  make  you  human — and  you've 
never  been  really  human  all  through,  you  know — was 
not  with  a  uniform  and  glory."  She  was  talking  flip 
pantly,  for  they  made  a  pretence  now  of  alluding  lightly 


CORINNA  OF  THE  OLD  PRINT  SHOP      51 

to  his  years  in  France — he  had  gone  into  the  war  be 
fore  his  country — and  to  the  nervous  malady,  the 
disabled  will,  he  had  brought  back.  "What  you  need 
is  not  to  win  more  esteem,  but  to  lose  some  that  you've 
got.  Your  salvation  lies  in  the  opposite  direction  from 
where  flags  are  waving.  If  you  could  only  deliberately 
arrange  to  do  something  that  would  lower  your  repu 
tation  in  the  eyes  of  gouty  old  gentlemen  or  mothers 
with  marriageable  daughters!  If  you  could  manage 
to  get  your  nose  broken,  or  elope  with  a  chorus  girl, 
or  commit  an  unromantic  murder,  I  should  begin  to 
have  hopes  of  you." 

"I  may  do  something  as  bad  some  day  and  surprise 

you." 

"It  would  surprise  me.  But  I'm  not  sure,  after  all, 
that  I  don't  like  you  better  as  you  are,  with  your  fine 
air  of  superiority.  It  makes  one  believe,  somehow,  in 
human  perfectibility.  Now,  I  can  never  believe  in 
that  when  I  realize  how  I  feel  about  Rose  Stribling. 
There  is  nothing  perfectible  in  such  emotions." 

"Rose  Stribling!  Beside  you  she  is  like  a  pumpkin 
in  the  basket  with  a  pomegranate ! " 

Corinna  laughed  with  frank  pleasure.  "There  are  a 
million  who  would  prefer  the  pumpkin  to  the  pome 
granate,"  she  answered.  "Rose  Stribling,  you  must 
admit,  is  the  type  that  has  been  the  desire  of  the 
world  since  Venus  first  rose  from  the  foam." 

"Can  you  imagine  Mrs.  Stribling  rising  from  foam?" 
Stephen  retorted  impertinently. 

"No,  Venus  has  grown  fatter  through  the  ages," 
assented  Corinna,  "but  the  type  is  unchanged.  Now, 
among  all  the  compliments  that  have  been  paid  me  in 
my  life,  no  one  has  ever  compared  me  to  the  Goddess  of 


52  ONE  MAN  IN  HIS  TIME 

Love.  I  have  been  painted  with  the  bow  of  Diana, 
but  never  with  the  doves  of  Venus." 

Because  he  felt  that  her  gaiety  rippled  over  an  under 
current  of  pain,  Stephen  bent  forward  and  touched  her 
hand  with  an  impulse  of  tenderness. 

"You  are  more  beautiful  than  you  ever  were  in  your 
life,"  he  said.  "There  isn't  a  woman  in  the  world 
who  can  compare  with  you."  Then  he  laughed 
merrily.  "I  shall  watch  you  two  to-morrow  evening, 
you  and  Rose  Stribling." 

"I  am  sorry,"  replied  Corinna  in  a  troubled  voice. 
"I  may  tell  you  the  truth  since  Father  says  it  is  the 
last  thing  any  one  ever  believes — and  the  truth  is  that 
she  makes  me  savage — yes,  I  mean  it — she  makes  me 
savage." 

"I  know  what  the  Judge  means  when  he  says  you  are 
like  Vetch,"  returned  Stephen  abruptly.  Then,  with 
out  waiting  for  her  reply,  he  added  in  an  impulsive 
tone:  "Triumph  over  her  to-morrow  night,  Corinna. 
Go  out  to  fight  with  all  your  weapons  and  seize  the 
trophies  from  Mrs.  Stribling." 

"You  funny  boy!"  exclaimed  Corinna,  but  the  sad 
ness  had  left  her  voice  and  her  eyes  were  shining. 
"Why,  I  am  twelve  years  older  than  Rose  Stribling, 
and  those  twelve  years  are  everything." 

"Those  twelve  years  are  nothing  unless  you  imagine 
that  you  are  in  a  novel.  It  is  only  in  books  that  there 
is  a  chronology  of  the  emotions." 

"She  is  a  fat  blonde  without  a  heart,"  insisted  Cor 
inna,  "and  they  are  invulnerable." 

"Well,  snatch  Vetch  away  from  her.  He  deserves 
something  better  than  that  combination." 

"Oh,  she  can't  hurt  him  very  much,  even  though 


CORINNA  OF  THE  OLD  PRINT  SHOP      53 

she  no  longer  has  a  husband  to  get  in  her  way.  Have 
you  ever  wondered  how  George  Stribling  stood  her? 
It  must  have  been  a  relief  to  find  himself  safely 
dead." 

"He  stood  her  as  one  stands  sultry  weather  probably, 
but  with  less  hope  of  a  change.  He  had  that  slow  and 
heavy  philosophy  that  wears  well.  I  think  it  even 
dawned  upon  him  now  and  then  that  there  was  some 
thing  funny  about  it." 

"Of  course  he  knew  that  she  married  him  for  his 
money,"  said  Corinna,  "but  that  is  the  last  thing  the 
natural  man  appears  to  resent." 

Stephen  rose  and  bent  over  her.  "Promise  me  that 
you  will  save  Vetch,"  he  implored  mockingly. 

"Why  this  sudden  interest  in  Vetch?"  Corinna 
rose  also  and  reached  for  her  fur  coat.  "It  makes  me 
curious  to  meet  him.  Yes,  I  promise  you  that  I  will 
go  to-morrow  night  attired  as  for  a  carnival  in  all 
the  mystery  of  a  velvet  mask.  I  may  not  save  Vetch, 
but  I  think  at  least  that  I  can  eclipse  Rose  Stribling. 
My  motive  may  not  be  admirable,  but  it  is  as  feminine 
as  a  string  of  beads." 

He  kissed  her  hand.  "Bless  your  heart  because  you 
are  both  human  and  my  cousin."  For  an  instant  he 
hesitated,  and  then  as  they  reached  the  door  together, 
he  turned  with  his  hand  on  the  knob,  and  looked  into 
her  eyes.  "The  Governor  has  a  daughter.  Did  you 
know  it?"  he  asked. 

"  Why,  of  course  I  know  it.  Isn't  Patty  Vetch  as  well 
advertised  as  the  newest  illustrated  weekly?" 

"I  was  wondering,"  again  he  hesitated  over  the  words, 
"if  you  had  seen  her  and  what  you  think  of  her?" 

"I  have  seen  her  twice.     She  was  in  here  the  other 


54  ONE  MAN  IN  HIS  TIME 

day  to  look  at  my  prints,  and,"  her  brilliant  eyes  grew 
soft,  "well,  I  feel  sorry  for  her." 

"  Sorry?    But  do  you  like  her?  " 

"Haven't  you  always  told  me  that  I  like  every 
body?" 

He  laughed.     "With  one  exception!" 

"With  one  particular  exception!" 

"But  honestly,  Corinna."  His  tone  was  insistent. 
"Do  you  like  Patty  Vetch?" 

"Honestly,  my  dear  Stephen,  I  do.  There  is  some 
thing — well,  something  almost  pathetic  about  the  girl; 
and  I  think  she  is  genuine.  One  day  last  week  she 
came  here  and  made  me  tell  her  everything  I  could 
about  my  prints.  I  don't  mean  really  that  she  made 
me,  you  know.  There  wasn't  anything  forward  about 
her  then,  though  I  hear  there  is  sometimes.  She 
seemed  to  me  a  restless,  lonely,  misdirected  intelligence 
hungry  to  know  things.  That  is  the  only  way  I  can 
describe  her,  but  you  will  understand.  She  has  had 
absolutely  no  advantages;  she  doesn't  even  know  what 
culture  means,  or  social  instinct,  or  any  of  the  qualities 
you  were  born  with,  my  dear  boy;  but  she  feels  vaguely 
that  she  has  missed  something,  and  she  is  reaching  out 
gropingly  and  trying  to  find  it.  I  like  the  spirit.  It 
strikes  me  as  American  in  the  best  sense — that  young 
longing  to  make  up  in  some  way  for  her  deficiencies  and 
lack  of  opportunities,  that  gallant  determination  to 
get  the  better  of  her  upbringing  and  her  surroundings. 
A  fight  always  appeals  to  me,  you  know.  I  like  the 
courage  that  is  in  the  girl — I  am  sure  it  is  courage — and 
her  straightforward  effort  to  get  the  best  out  of  life,  to 
learn  the  things  she  was  never  taught,  to  make  herself 
over  if  need  be." 


CORINNA  OF  THE  OLD  PRINT  SHOP      55 

"Is  this  Patty  Vetch,  Corinna,  or  your  own  dramatic 
instinct?" 

"Oh,  it's  Patty  Vetch!  I  had  no  interest  in  her 
whatever.  Why  should  I  have  had?  But  I  liked  the 
way  she  went  straight  as  a  dart  at  the  thing  she  wanted. 
There  was  no  affectation  about  her,  no  pretence  of 
being  what  she  was  not.  She  asked  about  prints 
because  she  saw  the  name  and  she  didn't  know  what  it 
meant.  She  would  have  asked  about  Browning,  or 
Swinburne,  or  Meredith  in  exactly  the  same  way  if 
this  had  been  a  book-shop.  She  wanted  to  know  the 
difference  between  a  mezzotint  and  a  stipple  print. 
She  wanted  to  know  all  about  the  portraits  too,  and 
the  names  of  the  painters  and  who  Lady  Hamilton  was 
and  the  Duchess  of  Bedford  and  the  Ladies  Waldegrave 
and  "Serena,"  and  if  Morland's  Cottagers  were  really 
as  happy  as  they  were  painted?  She  asked  as  many 
questions  as  Socrates,  and  I  fear  got  as  inadequately 
answered." 

"Well,  she  didn't  strike  me  as  in  the  least  like  that; 
but  you  can  be  a  great  help  to  her  if  she  is  really  in 
earnest." 

"She  didn't  strike  you  like  that,  my  dear,  simply 
because  you  are  a  man,  and  some  girls  are  never 
really  themselves  with  men;  they  are  for  ever  acting  a 
part ;  a  vulgar  part,  I  admit,  but  one  they  have  learned 
before  they  were  born,  the  instinctive  quarry  eluding 
the  instinctive  hunter.  The  girl  is  naturally  shy;  I 
could  tell  that,  and  she  covers  it  with  a  kind  of  bold 
ness  that  isn't — well,  particularly  attractive  to  one  of 
your  fastidious  mind.  Yet  there  is  something  rather 
taking  about  her.  She  reminds  me  of  a  small,  bright 
tropical  bird." 


56  ONE  MAN  IN  HIS  TIME 

"Of  a  Virginia  redbird,  you  mean." 

"A  redbird?     Then  you  have  seen  her?" 

"Yes,  I've  seen  her — only  twice — but  the  last  time 
she  indulged  her  sense  of  humour  in  a  practical  joke 
about  a  sprained  ankle." 

"I  suppose  she  would  joke  like  that.  Even  the 
modern  girl  that  we  know  isn't  in  the  best  possible 
taste.  And  you  must  remember  that  Patty  Vetch 
is  something  very  different  from  the  girls  that  you 
admire.  I  hope  she'll  let  me  help  her,  but  I  doubt 
it.  She  is  the  sort  that  wouldn't  come  if  you  tried  to 
call  and  coax  her.  You  said  her  father  was  like  that, 
didn't  you?  Well,  with  that  kind  of  wildness,  or  shy 
ness,  one  can't  put  out  a  cage,  you  know.  The  only 
way  is  to  scatter  crumbs  on  the  window-sill  and  then 
stand  and  wait.  Will  you  let  me  take  you  home?" 

They  had  crossed  the  pavement  to  her  car,  and  she 
waited  now  with  her  smile  of  whimsical  gaiety. 

"If  you  will.  It  is  only  a  few  blocks,  but  I  want  to 
hear  about  the  gown  you  will  wear  for  your  triumph." 

It  seemed  to  him  that  there  was  the  chime  of  silver 
bells  in  her  laughter.  "Oh,  my  dear,  must  every  vic 
tory  of  my  life  end  in  a  forlorn  hope!" 


CHAPTER  IV 

THE  TRIBAL  INSTINCT 

THE  spirit  of  the  age,  the  worship  of  the  many-headed 
god  of  magnitude,  was  holding  carnival  in  the  town. 
Faster  and  faster  buildings  were  rising;  the  higher  and 
more  flimsily  built,  the  better  it  seemed,  for  it  is  easier 
to  demolish  walls  that  have  been  lightly  erected.  Every 
where  people  were  pushing  one  another  into  the  slums 
or  the  country.  Everywhere  the  past  was  going  out 
with  the  times  and  the  future  was  coming  on  in  a  tor 
rent.  Two  opposing  principles,  the  conservative  and 
the  progressive,  had  struggled  for  victory,  and  the  pro 
gressive  principle  had  won.  To  add  more  and  more 
numbers;  to  build  higher  and  higher;  to  push  harder 
and  harder;  and  particularly  to  improve  what  had  been 
already  added  or  built  or  pushed — these  impulses  had 
united  at  last  into  a  frenzied  activity.  And  while  the 
building  and  the  pushing  and  the  improving  went  on, 
the  village  grew  into  the  town,  the  town  grew  into  the 
city,  and  the  city  grew  out  into  the  country.  Beneath 
it  all,  informing  the  apparent  confusion,  there  was  some 
crude  belief  that  the  symbol  of  material  success  is  size, 
and  that  size  in  itself,  regardless  of  quality  or  condition, 
is  civilization.  For  the  many-headed  god  is  a  god  of 
sacrifice.  He  makes  a  wilderness  of  beauty  and  calls  it 
progress. 

Long  ago  the  village  had  disappeared.  Long  ago 
the  spacious  southern  homes,  with  their  walled  gardens 

57 


58  ONE  MAN  IN  HIS  TIME 

of  box  and  roses  and  aromatic  shrubs  in  spring,  had 
receded  into  the  shadowy  memories  of  those  whom 
the  modern  city  pointed  out,  with  playful  solicitude, 
as  "the  oldest  inhabitants."  None  except  the  very 
oldest  inhabitants  could  remember  those  friendly  and 
picturesque  streets,  deeply  shaded  by  elms  and  syca 
mores;  those  hospitable  houses  of  gray  stucco  or  red 
brick  which  time  had  subdued  to  a  delicate  rust-colour; 
those  imposing  Doric  columns,  or  quaint  Georgian 
doorways;  those  grass-grown  brick  pavements,  where 
old  ladies  in  perpetual  mourning  gathered  for  leisurely 
gossip;  those  wrought-iron  gates  that  never  closed; 
those  unshuttered  windows,  with  small  gleaming  panes, 
which  welcomed  the  passer-by  in  winter ;  or  those  gardens, 
steeped  in  the  fragrance  of  mint  and  old-fashioned 
flowers,  which  allured  the  thirsty  visitor  in  summer. 
These  things  had  vanished  years  ago;  yet  beneath 
the  noisy  commercial  city  the  friendly  village  remained. 
There  were  hours  in  the  lavender-tinted  twilights 
of  spring,  or  on  autumn  afternoons,  while  the  shadows 
quivered  beneath  the  burnished  leaves  and  the  sunset 
glowed  with  the  colour  of  apricots,  when  the  watcher 
might  catch  a  fleeting  glimpse  of  the  past.  It  may 
have  been  the  drop  of  dusk  in  the  arched  recess  of  a 
Colonial  doorway;  it  may  have  been  the  faint  sun 
shine  on  the  ivy-grown  corner  of  an  old  brick  wall; 
it  may  have  been  the  plaintive  melody  of  a  negro  mar 
ket-man  in  the  street ;  or  it  may  have  been  the  first  view 
of  the  Culpeper's  gray  and  white  mansion;  but,  in  one 
or  all  of  these  things,  there  were  moments  when  the 
ghost  of  the  buried  village  stirred  and  looked  out,  and 
a  fragrance  that  was  like  the  memory  of  box  and  mint 
and  blush  roses  stole  into  the  senses.  It  was  then  that 


THE  TRIBAL  INSTINCT  59 

one  turned  to  the  Doric  columns  of  the  Culpeper  house, 
standing  firmly  established  in  its  grassy  lawn  above  the 
street  and  the  age,  and  reflected  that  the  defeated  spirit 
of  tradition  had  entrenched  itself  well  at  the  last.  Time 
had  been  powerless  against  that  fortress  of  prejudice; 
against  that  cheerful  and  inaccessible  prison  of  the 
tribal  instinct.  Poverty,  the  one  indiscriminate  lev 
eller  of  men  and  principles,  had  never  attacked  it,  for 
in  the  lean  years  of  Reconstruction,  when  to  look 
well  fed  was  little  short  of  a  disgrace  in  Virginia,  an 
English  cousin,  remote  but  clannish,  had  died  at  an  op 
portune  moment  and  left  Mr.  Randolph  Byrd  Culpeper 
a  moderate  fortune.  Thanks  to  this  event,  which  Mrs. 
Culpeper  gratefully  classified  as  the  "intervention 
of  Providence,"  the  family  had  scarcely  altered  its 
manner  of  living  in  the  last  two  hundred  years.  To  be 
sure  there  were  modern  discomforts  which  related  to 
the  abolition  of  slavery  and  the  prohibition  of  whiskey; 
but  since  the  Culpepers  had  been  indulgent  masters 
and  light  drinkers,  they  had  come  to  regard  these 
deprivations  as  in  the  nature  of  blessings.  Solid, 
imposing,  and  as  richly  endowed  as  an  institution 
of  learning,  the  Culpeper  generations  had  weathered 
both  the  restraints  and  the  assaults  of  the  cen 
turies.  The  need  to  make  a  living,  that  grim  neces 
sity  which  is  the  mother  of  democracy,  had  brushed 
them  as  lightly  as  the  theory  of  evolution.  Saturated 
with  tradition  as  with  an  odour,  and  fortified  by  the 
ponderous  moral  purpose  of  the  Victorian  age,  they  had 
never  doubted  anything  that  was  old  and  never  discov 
ered  anything  that  was  new.  About  them  as  about 
the  hidden  village,  there  was  the  charm  of  mellowness, 
of  unruffled  serenity.  Some  ineradicable  belief  in 


60  ONE  MAN  IN  HIS  TIME 

things  as  they  have  always  been  had  preserved  them 
from  the  aesthetic  derangement  of  the  Mid- Victorian 
taste;  and  in  standing  for  what  was  old,  they  had 
stood,  inadvertently  but  courageously,  for  what  was 
excellent.  Security,  permanence,  possession — all  the 
instincts  which  blend  to  make  the  tribe  and  the  com 
munity,  all  the  agencies  which  work  for  organized 
society  and  against  the  wayward  experiment  in  human 
destiny — these  were  the  stubborn  forces  embodied  in 
the  Culpeper  stock. 

The  present  head  of  the  family,  that  Randolph 
ByrdjCulpeper  who  had  been  only  ten  years  old  when 
Providence  intervened,  was  now  a  fine-looking,  heavily 
built  man  of  sixty-five,  with  prominent  dark  eyes  under 
sleepy  lids,  abundant  iron-gray  hair  which  was  brushed 
until  it  shone,  and  a  drooping  moustache  that  was  still 
as  brown  as  it  had  been  in  his  youth.  He  had  an  im 
pressive  though  stolid  bearing,  an  amiable  expression, 
an  engaging  smile,  and  the  manner  of  a  weary  mon 
arch.  It  was  his  boast  that  he  had  never  done  any 
thing  for  the  first  time  without  ascertaining  precisely 
how  it  had  been  done  by  the  highest  authority  be 
fore  him.  Devoid  of  even  the  rudiments  of  an  imagi 
nation,  he  had  never  been  visited  in  a  nightmare 
by  the  suspicion  that  the  name  of  Culpeper  was  not 
the  best  result  of  the  best  of  all  possible  worlds.  As 
long  as  his  prejudices  were  not  offended  his  generosity 
was  inexhaustible.  For  the  rest,  he  bore  his  social 
position  as  reverently  as  if  it  were  a  plate  in  church, 
had  never  spoken  a  profane  word  or  recognized  a  joke 
in  his  life,  and  still  dined  at  two  o'clock  in  the  after 
noon  because  his  grandfather,  who  was  dyspeptic  by 
constitution,  had  been  unable  to  digest  a  late  dinner. 


THE  TRIBAL  INSTINCT  61 

At  the  time  of  his  marriage,  an  unusually  happy  one, 
he  was  regarded  as  "the  handsomest  man  of  his  day"; 
and  he  was  still  yearned  over  from  a  distance  by  elderly 
ladies  of  suppressed  romantic  temperaments. 

Mrs.  Culpeper,  a  small  imperious  woman  of  dis 
tinguished  lineage  and  uncertain  temper,  had  gone 
through  an  entire  life  seeing  only  one  thing  at  a  time, 
and  never  seeing  that  one  thing  as  it  really  was.  If  her 
husband  embodied  the  moral  purpose,  she  herself  was 
an  incarnation  of  the  evasive  idealism  of  the  nineteenth 
century.  Her  universe  was  comprised  in  her  family 
circle;  her  horizon  ended  with  the  old  brick  wall  be 
tween  the  alley  and  the  Culpepers*  garden.  All  that 
related  to  her  husband,  her  eight  children  and  her  six 
grandchildren,  was  not  only  of  supreme  importance  and 
intense  interest  to  her,  but  of  unsurpassed  beauty  and 
excellence.  It  was  intolerable  to  her  exclusive  ma 
ternal  instinct  that  either  virtue  or  happiness  should 
exist  in  any  degree,  except  a  lesser  measure,  outside  of 
her  own  household;  and  praise  of  another  woman's 
children  conveyed  to  her  a  secret  disparagement  of  her 
own.  Having  naturally  a  kind  heart  she  could  forgive 
any  sin  in  her  neighbours  except  prosperity — though 
as  Corinna  had  once  observed,  with  characteristic 
flippancy,  "Continual  affliction  was  a  high  price  to 
pay  for  Aunt  Harriet's  favour."  In  her  girlhood  she 
had  been  a  famous  beauty;  and  she  was  still  as  fine 
and  delicately  tinted  as  a  carving  in  old  ivory,  with 
a  skin  like  a  faded  microphylla  rose-leaf,  and  stiff  yel 
lowish  white  hair,  worn  a  la  Pompadour.  Her  mind 
was  thin  but  firm,  and  having  received  a  backward  twist 
in  its  youth,  it  had  remained  inflexibly  bent  for  more 
than  sixty  years.  Unlike  her  husband  she  was  gifted 


62  ONE  MAN  IN  HIS  TIME 

with  an  active,  though  perfectly  concrete  imagination 
— a  kind  of  superior  magic  lantern  that  shot  out  im 
ages  in  black  and  white  on  a  sheet — and  a  sense  of 
humour  which,  in  spite  of  the  fact  that  it  lost  its  edge 
when  it  was  pointed  at  the  family,  was  not  without 
practical  value  in  a  crisis. 

On  the  evening  of  Stephen's  adventure  in  the  Square, 
the  Culpeper  family  had  gathered  in  the  front  drawing- 
room,  to  await  the  arrival  of  a  young  cousin,  whom, 
they  devoutly  hoped,  Stephen  would  one  day  perceive 
the  wisdom  of  marrying.  The  four  daughters — Vic 
toria,  the  eldest,  who  had  nursed  in  France  during  the 
war;  Hatty,  who  ought  to  have  been  pretty,  and  was 
not;  Janet,  who  was  candidly  plain;  and  Mary  Byrd, 
who  would  have  been  a  beauty  in  any  circle — were 
talking  eagerly,  with  the  innumerable  little  gestures 
which  they  had  inherited  from  Mrs.  Culpeper 's  side  of 
the  house.  They  adored  one  another;  they  adored 
their  father  and  mother;  they  adored  their  three  broth 
ers  and  their  married  sister,  whose  name  was  Julia; 
and  they  adored  every  nephew  and  niece  in  the  con 
nection.  Though  they  often  quarrelled,  being  young 
and  human,  these  quarrels  rippled  as  lightly  as  summer 
storms  over  profound  depths  of  devotion. 

"Oh,  I  do  wish,"  said  Mary  Byrd,  who  had 
"come  out"  triumphantly  the  winter  before,  "that 
Stephen  would  marry  Margaret."  She  was  a  slender 
graceful  girl,  with  red-gold  hair,  which  had  a  lustrous 
sheen  and  a  natural  wave  in  it,  and  the  brown  ox-like 
eyes  of  her  father.  There  was  a  great  deal  of  what 
Peyton,  the  second  son,  who  lived  at  home,  and  was 
the  most  modern  of  the  family,  called  "dash"  about 
her. 


THE  TRIBAL  INSTINCT  63 

"It  was  the  war  that  spoiled  it,"  said  Janet,  the  plain 
one,  who  possessed  what  her  mother  fondly  described 
as  "a  charm  that  was  all  her  own."  "I  sometimes 
think  the  war  spoiled  everything." 

At  this  Victoria,  the  eldest,  demurred  mildly.  Ever 
since  she  had  nursed  in  France,  she  had  assumed  a 
slightly  possessive  manner  toward  the  war,  as  if  she 
had  in  some  mysterious  way  brought  it  into  the  world 
and  was  responsible  for  its  reputation.  She  was  tall 
and  very  thin,  with  a  perfect  complexion,  a  long  nose, 
and  a  short  upper  lip  which  showed  her  teeth  too  much 
when  she  laughed.  Her  hair  was  fair  and  fluffy;  and 
Mrs.  Culpeper,  who  could  not  praise  her  beauty,  was 
very  proud  of  her  "aristocratic  appearance." 

"Why,  he  never  even  mentions  the  war,"  she  pro 
tested. 

"I  don't  care.  I  believe  he  thinks  about  it,"  in 
sisted  Janet,  who  would  never  surrender  a  point  after 
she  had  once  made  it. 

"He's  different,  anyhow,"  said  Hatty,  the  one  who 
had  everything,  as  her  mother  asserted,  to  make  her 
pretty,  and  yet  wasn't.  "He  isn't  nearly  so  normal. 
Is  he,  Mother?" 

Mrs.  Culpeper  raised  troubled  eyes  from  the  skirt  of 
her  pale  gray  silk  gown  which  she  was  scrutinizing 
dejectedly.  "How  on  earth  could  I  have  got  that 
spot  there?"  she  remarked  in  her  brisk  yet  soft  voice. 
"I  am  afraid  you  are  right,  dear,  about  Stephen.  He 
certainly  hasn't  been  like  himself  for  some  time.  I 
have  felt  really  anxious,  I  suppose  it  was  the  war. " 

While  the  war  had  lasted  she  had  seen  it,  according 
to  her  habit  of  vision,  with  peculiar  intentness,  and  she 
had  seen  nothing  else;  but  from  the  beginning  to  the 


64  ONE  MAN  IN  HIS  TIME 

end,  it  had  appeared  to  her  mainly  as  an  international 
disturbance  which  had  upset  the  serene  and  regular 
course  of  her  family  affairs.  For  the  past  two  years  she 
had  refused  to  think  of  it  except  under  pressure;  and 
then  she  recalled  it  only  as  the  occasion  when  Victoria 
and  Stephen  had  been  in  France,  and  poor  Peyton  in  a 
training  camp.  Her  feeling  had  been  violent,  but  en 
tirely  personal,  while  Mr.  Culpeper,  who  possessed  the 
martial  patriotism  characteristic  of  Virginians  of  his 
class  and  generation,  had  been  animated  by  the  sacri 
ficial  spirit  of  a  hero. 

"Oh,  Stephen  is  all  right,"  declared  Peyton,  who  felt 
impelled  to  take  the  side  of  his  brother  in  a  family  dis 
cussion.  He  was  an  incurious  and  gay  young  man,  of 
active  sporting  interests  and  immaculate  appearance, 
with  so  few  of  the  moral  attributes  of  the  Culpepers 
that  his  mother  sometimes  wondered  how  he  could 
possibly  be  the  son  of  his  father.  Indeed  there  were 
times  when  this  wonder  extended  to  Mary  Byrd,  for  it 
seemed  incredible  that  anything  so  "advanced"  as  the 
outlook  of  these  two  should  have  been  a  legitimate  off 
spring  of  either  the  Culpeper  or  the  Warwick  point  of 
view. 

"He  would  be  all  right,"  maintained  Janet,  "if  he 
would  only  marry  Margaret.  I  am  sure  she  likes  him." 

"Oh,  I  don't  know.  There's  that  young  clergyman," 
rejoined  Hatty,  "and  Margaret  is  so  pious.  I  suppose 
that's  why  she  has  never  been  popular  with  men." 

"My  dear  child,"  breathed  Mrs.  Culpeper  in  re 
monstrance,  and  she  added  emphatically,  as  if  the 
doubt  were  a  disparagement  of  Stephen's  attractions, 
"Of  course  she  likes  him.  Why,  it  would  be  a  perfectly 
splendid  marriage  for  Margaret  Blair." 


THE  TRIBAL  INSTINCT  65 

"It  isn't  possible,"  asked  Mary  Byrd,  for  if  her 
manners  were  modern,  her  prejudices  were  old-fash 
ioned,  "that  Stephen  could  have  met  any  one  else  over 
there?"  She  was  wearing  an  elaborate,  very  short 
and  very  low  gown  of  pink  velvet,  not  one  of  the  simple 
blue  or  gray  silk  dresses,  with  modest  round  necks,  in 
which  her  sisters  attired  themselves  in  the  evening. 
A  little  later  she  and  Peyton  would  go  on  to  a  dance; 
for  her  mother's  consternation  when  the  frock  had  been 
unpacked  from  its  Paris  wrappings  had  been  tem 
porarily  mitigated  by  the  assertion  that  unless  one 
danced  in  gowns  like  that,  one  simply  couldn't  be  ex 
pected  to  dance  at  all.  "  Of  course,  if  you  wish  me  to  be 
a  wall-flower  like  Margaret  Blair,"  Mary  Byrd  had  pro 
tested  with  wounded  dignity;  and  since  Mrs.  Culpeper 
wished  nothing  on  earth  so  little  as  that,  her  only 
response  had  been,  "Well,  I  hope  to  heaven  that  you 
won't  let  your  father  see  it!" 

Now,  as  her  husband  was  heard  descending  the  stairs, 
she  said  hurriedly:  "Mary  Byrd,  if  you  won't  put  a 
scarf  over  your  knees,  I  wish  you  would  wear  one  around 
your  neck." 

"Oh,  Father  won't  mind,"  retorted  Mary  Byrd 
flippantly.  "He  is  a  real  sport,  and  he  knows  that  you 
have  to  play  the  game  well  if  you  play  it  at  all."  Then 
turning  with  her  liveliest  air,  she  remarked  as  Mr. 
Culpeper  entered:  "Father,  darling,  I've  just  said 
that  you  were  a  sport." 

Mr.  Culpeper  surveyed  her  with  portentous  disap 
proval.  He  adored  her,  and  she  knew  it,  but  because 
it  was  impossible  for  his  features  to  wear  any  expression 
lightly,  the  natural  gravity  of  his  look  deepened  to  a 
thundercloud. 


66  ONE  MAN  IN  HIS  TIME 

"Is  Mary  Byrd  going  in  swimming?"  he  demanded 
not  of  his  daughter,  but  of  the  family. 

"No,  you  precious,  only  in  dancing,"  replied  Mary 
Byrd,  as  she  rose  airily  and  placed  a  kiss  above  the 
thundercloud  on  his  forehead. 

"Will  you  go  looking  like  this?" 

"Not  if  I  can  possibly  look  any  worse."  She  swayed 
like  a  golden  lily  before  his  astonished  gaze.  "Can  you 
suggest  any  way  that  I  might?" 

"I  cannot."  His  face  cleared  under  the  kiss,  and  he 
held  her  at  arm's  length  while  paternal  pride  softened 
his  look,  "Do  you  really  mean  that  you  won't  shock 
the  young  men  away  from  you?"  It  was  as  near  a  jest 
as  he  had  ever  come,  and  a  ripple  of  amusement  passed 
over  the  room. 

"I  may  shock  them,  but  not  away."  The  girl  was 
really  a  wonder.  How  in  the  world,  he  asked  himself, 
did  she  happen  to  be  his  daughter? 

"Do  you  mean  that  all  the  other  girls  dress  like  this? " 
It  was  his  final  appeal  to  an  arbitrary  but  acknowledged 
authority. 

"All  the  popular  ones.  You  can't  wish  me  to  dress 
like  the  unpopular  ones,  can  you?" 

His  appeal  had  failed,  and  he  accepted  defeat  with 
the  sober  courage  his  father  had  displayed  in  a  greater 
surrender. 

"Well,  I  suppose  if  everybody  does  it,  it  is  all  right," 
he  conceded;  and  though  he  was  not  aware  of  it,  he  had 
compressed  into  this  convenient  axiom  his  whole  philos 
ophy  of  conduct. 

As  he  crossed  the  room  to  the  glowing  fire  and  the 
black  marble  mantelpiece,  which  had  supplanted  the 
delicate  Adam  one  of  a  less  resplendent  period,  he  wore 


THE  TRIBAL  INSTINCT  67 

an  air  that  was  at  once  gentle  and  haughty — the  ex 
pression  of  a  man  who  hopes  that  he  is  a  Christian  and 
knows  that  his  blood  is  blue. 

"Hasn't  Stephen  come  in  yet?"  he  inquired  of  his 
wife.  "I  thought  I  heard  him  upstairs." 

She  shook  her  head  helplessly.  "No,  and  I  told  him 
Margaret  was  coming.  That  is  her  ring  now." 

Mr.  Culpeper  looked  at  Mary  Byrd.  "I  am  sure 
that  Margaret  would  clothe  herself  more  discreetly," 
he  remarked  in  a  voice  which  sounded  husky  because  he 
tried  to  make  it  facetious.  "When  I  was  a  young  man 
it  was  the  fashion  to  compare  women  to  flowers,  and 
in  these  unromantic  days  I  should  call  Margaret  our 
last  violet " 

A  peal  of  laughter  fell  from  the  bright  red  lips  of  Mary 
Byrd.  "It  sounds  as  depressing  as  the  last  rose  of 
summer,"  she  cried,  "and  it's  just  as  certain  to  be  left 

on  the  stem "  Then  she  broke  off,  still  pulsing 

with  merriment,  for  the  door  opened  slowly,  and  the 
last  violet  entered  the  room. 


CHAPTER  V 

MAEGARET 

As  HE  inserted  his  latch-key  in  the  old-fashioned  lock, 
Stephen  remembered  that  his  mother  had  instructed 
him  not  to  be  late  because  Margaret  Blair  was  coming 
to  spend  the  evening.  "It  takes  you  so  long  to  change 
that  I  believe  you  begin  to  dream  as  soon  as  you  go 
to  your  room,"  she  had  added;  and  while  he  made  his 
way  hurriedly  and  softly  up  the  stairs,  he  wondered 
how  he  could  have  so  completely  forgotten  the  girl 
whom  he  had  always  thought  of  vaguely  as  the  one 
who  would  some  day — some  remote  day  probably — 
become  his  wife.  He  was  not  in  love  with  Margaret, 
and  he  believed,  though  one  could  never  be  sure,  that 
she  was  not  in  love  with  him — that  her  fancy,  if  a  pref 
erence  so  modest  could  be  called  by  so  capricious  a 
name,  was  for  the  handsome  young  clergyman  who  read 
Browning  with  her  every  Tuesday  afternoon.  But  he 
was  aware  also  that  she  would  marry  him  if  he  asked 
her;  he  knew  that  the  hearts  of  four  formidable  parents 
were  set  on  the  match;  and  in  his  past  experience  his 
mother's  heart  had  invariably  triumphed  over  his 
less  intrepid  resolves.  When  Janet  had  said  that  the 
war  had  "spoiled"  this  carefully  nurtured  sentiment, 
she  had  described  the  failure  with  her  usual  accuracy. 
If  he  had  never  gone  to  France,  he  would  certainly 
have  married  Margaret  in  his  twenty-fourth  year, 
and  by  this  time  they  would  have  begun  to  rear  a 


MARGARET  69 

promising  family.  For  he  was  the  offspring  of  tradi 
tion;  and  the  seeds  of  that  strange  flower,  which  some 
adventurous  ancestor  had  strewn  in  his  soul,  could  not 
have  broken  through  the  compact  soil  in  which  he  had 
grown.  If  he  had  never  felt  the  charm  of  the  unknown, 
he  would  have  remained  satisfied  to  accept  convention 
for  romance;  if  he  had  never  caught  a  glimpse  of  wider 
horizons,  he  would  have  restricted  his  vision  content 
edly  to  the  tranquil  current  of  James  River.  But  the 
harm  had  been  done,  as  Janet  said,  the  exotic  flower  had 
sprung  up,  and  he  had  learned  that  the  family  formula 
for  happiness  could  not  suffice  for  his  needs.  He 
craved  something  larger,  something  wider,  something 
deeper,  than  the  world  in  which  his  fathers  had  lived. 
In  that  first  year  after  his  return  he  had  felt  that 
antiquated  traditions  were  closing  about  him  and 
shutting  out  the  air,  just  as  he  had  felt  at  times  that 
the  fine  old  walls  of  the  house  were  pressing  together 
over  his  head.  At  such  moments  the  sense  of  suffoca 
tion,  of  smothering  for  lack  of  space  in  which  to  breathe, 
had  driven  him  like  a  hunted  creature  out  into  the 
streets.  It  was  not  long  before  he  discovered  that 
certain  persons  brought  this  feeling  of  oppression  more 
quickly  than  others,  that  the  presence  of  Margaret  or 
of  his  parents  stifled  him,  while  Corinna  made  him  feel 
as  if  a  window  had  been  suddenly  flung  open.  The 
doctors,  of  course,  had  talked  in  scientific  terms  of 
diseased  nerves  and  a  specialist  whom  his  mother  had 
called  in  on  one  occasion  had  tried  first  to  probe  into 
the  secrets  of  his  infancy  and  afterward  to  analyse  his 
symptoms  away.  But  the  war,  among  other  lessons, 
had  taught  him  that  one  must  not  take  either  one's 
sensations  or  scientific  opinion  too  seriously,  and  he  had 


70  ONE  MAN  IN  HIS  TIME 

contrived  at  last  to  turn  the  whole  thing  into  the  kind  of 
family  joke  that  his  father  could  understand.  Out 
wardly  he  took  up  his  life  as  before;  if  the  penalty  of 
depression  was  psychoanalysis,  it  was  worth  while  to 
pretend  at  least  to  be  gay.  Yet  beneath  the  surface 
there  was,  he  told  himself,  a  profound  revulsion  from 
everything  that  he  had  once  enjoyed  and  loved — 
an  apathy  of  soul  which  made  him  a  moving  shadow 
in  a  universe  of  stark  unrealities.  He  knew  that  he  was 
sinking  deeper  and  deeper  into  this  morass  of  indiffer 
ence;  he  realized,  at  times  vividly,  that  his  only  hope 
was  in  change,  in  a  complete  break  with  the  past  and  a 
complete  plunge  into  the  future.  His  reason  told  him 
this,  and  yet,  though  he  longed  passionately  to  let  him 
self  go — to  make  the  wild  dash  for  freedom — his  disabled 
will,  the  nervous  indecision  from  which  he  suffered,  pre 
vented  both  his  liberation  and  his  recovery.  There 
were  hours  of  grayness  when  he  told  himself  that  he  had 
neither  the  fortitude  to  endure  the  old  nor  the  energy 
to  embrace  the  new.  In  his  nature,  as  in  his  environ 
ment,  two  opposing  spirits  were  struggling :  the  realistic 
spirit  which  saw  things  as  they  were  and  the  romantic 
spirit  which  saw  things  as  they  ought  to  be.  It  was  the 
immemorial  battle,  brought  by  circumstances  to  a 
crisis,  between  the  race  and  the  individual,  between 
tradition  and  adventure,  between  philosophy  and  ex 
perience,  between  age  and  youth. 

Yes,  it  was  "something  different"  that  he  craved. 
He  had  known  Margaret  too  long;  there  was  no  sur 
prise  for  him  in  any  gesture  that  she  made,  in  any  word 
that  she  uttered.  They  had  drunk  too  deeply  of  the 
same  springs  to  offer  each  other  the  attraction  of 
mystery,  the  charm  of  the  unusual.  He  was  familiar 


MARGARET  71 

with  every  opinion  she  had  inherited  and  preserved, 
with  every  dress  she  had  worn,  with  every  book 
she  had  read.  As  a  whole  she  embodied  his  ideal 
of  feminine  perfection.  She  was  gentle,  lovely  and 
unselfish;  she  never  asked  unnecessary  questions, 
never  exacted  more  of  one's  time  than  one  cared  to  give, 
never  interfered  with  more  important,  if  not  more 
admirable,  pursuits.  That  was  the  rarest  of  combina 
tions,  he  knew — the  delightful  mingling  of  every  vir 
tue  he  held  desirable  in  woman — and  yet,  rare  and 
delightful  as  he  acknowledged  it  to  be,  he  was  obliged 
to  confess  that  it  awakened  not  the  faintest  quiver  of 
his  pulses.  Margaret  aroused  in  him  every  sentiment 
except  the  one  of  interest;  and  he  had  begun  to  realize 
that  at  the  moments  when  he  admired  her  most,  it 
was  often  impossible  for  him  to  make  conversation. 
It  had  never  occurred  to  him  to  wonder  if  their 
association  had  become  emotionally  unprofitable  to  her 
also,  for  in  accordance  with  the  system  under  which  he 
lived,  he  had  assumed  that  woman's  part  in  love 
was  as  heroically  passive  as  it  had  been  in  religion. 
What  he  had  asked  himself  again  and  again  was  why, 
since  she  was  so  perfectly  desirable  in  every  way,  he  had 
never  fallen  in  love  with  her?  Until  this  evening  he  had 
always  told  himself  that  it  would  come  right  in  the 
end,  that  he  was  in  his  own  phrase  simply  "playing  for 
time."  Margaret  was  handsomer,  if  less  piquant, 
than  Patty  Vetch.  She  possessed  every  quality  he  had 
found  lacking  in  poor  Patty;  yet  he  admitted  ruefully 
that  he  felt  the  vague  sense  of  disappointment  which 
follows  when  one  is  offered  a  dish  of  one's  choice  and 
finds  that  the  expected  flavour  is  missing. 

There  was  a  peremptory  knock  at  his  door,  and  his 


72  ONE  MAN  IN  HIS  TIME 

mother  looked  in  reproachfully.  "You  must  hurry, 
Stephen,  or  everything  will  be  burned  to  a  cinder." 

"I  am  sorry,"  he  replied  with  compunction,  "I 
didn't  realize  that  I  was  late." 

Her  expression  was  stern  but  kind.  "If  you  could 
only  learn  to  be  punctual,  dear.  Of  course  while  we 
felt  that  you  were  not  quite  yourself,  we  tried  not 
to  worry  about  it.  But  you  have  been  home  so  long 
now  that  you  ought  to  be  able  to  drop  back  into  your 
old  habits." 

She  was  right,  he  knew;  the  exasperating  thing  about 
her  was  that  she  was  always  right.  It  was  reasonable, 
it  was  logical,  that  after  two  years  he  should  be  able 
to  drop  back  into  his  old  habits  of  life;  and  yet  he 
realized,  with  the  intensity  of  revolt,  that  these  habits 
represented  for  him  the  form  of  bondage  from  which 
he  desired  passionately  to  escape.  He  could  not  oppose 
his  mother,  and  the  knowledge  that  he  could  not  oppose 
her  increased  his  annoyance.  As  far  back  as  he  could 
remember  she  had  governed  her  household  as  a  be 
nevolent  despot;  and  the  fact  that  she  lived  entirely  for 
others  appeared  to  him  to  have  endowed  her  with  some 
unfair  advantage.  Her  very  unselfishness  had  developed 
into  an  unscrupulous  power  to  ruin  their  lives.  How  was 
it  possible  to  weigh  one's  personal  preferences  against 
an  irresistible  force  which  was  actuated  simply  and  solely 
by  the  desire  for  one's  good?  Who  could  withstand  a 
virtue  which  had  encased  itself  in  the  first  principle  of 
religion — which  gave  all  things  and  demanded  nothing 
except  the  sacrifice  of  one's  immortal  soul? 

"I  am  ready  now,"  he  said;  and  then  as  they  went 
downstairs  together,  he  added  contritely:  "After  this 
Til  try  to  remember." 


MARGARET  73 

"I  hope  you  will,  my  dear.  It  vexes  your  father." 
Even  in  his  childhood  Stephen  had  understood  that  his 
father's  "vexation"  existed  only  as  an  instrument  of 
correction  in  the  hands  of  his  mother.  Though  he  had 
discovered  by  the  time  he  was  three  years  old  that  the 
image  was  nothing  more  than  a  nursery  bugaboo,  there 
were  occasions  still  when  the  figure  was  solemnly 
dressed  up  and  paraded  before  his  eyes. 

"So  it's  the  Dad,  bless  him!"  he  exclaimed,  for  if 
he  loved  his  mother  in  spite  of  her  virtues,  he  joined 
heartily  in  the  family  worship  of  the  head  of  the  house. 
"Well,  he  has  had  a  word  with  Margaret  anyway,  and 
he  ought  to  thank  me  for  that." 

"Dear  Margaret,"  murmured  Mrs.  Culpeper,  "she 
is  looking  so  sweet  to-night." 

That  Margaret  was  looking  very  sweet  indeed, 
Stephen  acknowledged  as  soon  as  he  entered  the  room, 
where  the  firelight  suffused  the  Persian  rugs  (which  had 
replaced  the  earlier  Brussels  carpet  woven  in  a  mammoth 
floral  design),  the  elaborately  carved  and  twisted  rose 
wood  chairs  and  sofas,  upholstered  in  ruby-coloured 
brocade,  the  few  fine  old  pieces  of  Chippendale  or 
Heppelwhite,  the  massive  crystal  chandelier,  and  the 
precise  copies  of  Italian  paintings  in  gorgeous  Floren 
tine  frames.  Here  and  there  hung  a  family  portrait, 
one  of  Amanda  Culpeper,  a  famous  English  beauty, 
with  a  long  nose  and  a  short  upper  lip,  not  unlike  Vic 
toria's.  This  painting,  which  was  supposed  to  be  by 
Sir  Joshua  Reynolds,  was  a  source  of  unfailing  con 
solation  to  Victoria,  though  Stephen  preferred  the 
Sully  painting  of  his  grandmother,  Judith  Randolph, 
who  reminded  him  in  some  subtle  way  of  Margaret 
Blair.  In  his  childhood  he  had  believed  this  drawing- 


74  ONE  MAN  IN  HIS  TIME 

room  to  be  the  most  beautiful  place  on  earth,  and  he 
never  entered  it  now  without  a  feeling  of  regret  for  a 
shattered  illusion. 

As  he  took  Margaret's  hand  her  expression  of  in 
telligent  sympathy  went  straight  to  his  heart;  and  he 
told  himself  emphatically  that  after  all  the  familiar 
graces  in  women  were  the  most  lovable.  She  was  a 
small  fragile  girl,  with  a  lovely  oval  face,  nut-brown 
hair  that  grew  in  a  "widow's  peak"  on  her  forehead, 
and  the  prettiest  dark  blue  eyes  in  the  world.  Her 
figure  drooped  slightly  in  the  shoulders,  and  was,  as 
Mary  Byrd  pointed  out  in  her  dashing  way,  "without 
the  faintest  pretence  to  style."  But  if  Margaret  lacked 
"style,"  she  possessed  an  unconscious  grace  which 
seemed  to  Stephen  far  more  attractive.  It  was 
delightful  to  watch  the  flowing  lines  of  her  clothes,  as 
if,  he  used  to  imagine  in  a  fanciful  strain,  she  were 
poured  out  of  some  slender  porcelain  vase.  Her  dress 
to-night,  of  delicate  blue  crepe,  began  slightly  below  the 
throat  and  reached  almost  to  her  ankles.  It  was  a 
fashion  which  he  had  always  admired;  but  he  realized 
that  it  gave  Margaret,  who  was  only  twenty-two,  a 
quaint  air  of  maturity. 

"I  am  so  sorry  I  am  late,"  he  said,  "but  I  had  to  go 
back  to  the  office  for  a  paper  I'd  forgotten."  It  was 
the  truth  as  far  as  it  went;  and  yet  because  it  was  not 
the  whole  truth,  because  his  delay  was  due,  not  to  his 
return  for  the  paper,  but  to  his  meeting  with  Patty 
Vetch  in  the  Square,  his  conscience  pricked  him  uncom 
fortably.  When  deceit  was  so  easy  it  ceased  to  be  a 
temptation. 

She  looked  at  him  with  an  expression  of  guileless 
sympathy.  "After  working  all  day  I  should  think  you 


MARGARET  75 

would  be  tired,"  she  murmured.  That  was  the  way 
she  would  always  cover  up  his  errors,  large  or  small, 
he  knew,  with  a  trusting  sweetness  which  made  him  feel 
there  was  dishonour  in  the  merest  tinge  of  dissimula 
tion. 

Mary  Byrd  was  talking  as  usual  in  high  fluting  notes 
which  drowned  the  gentle  ripple  of  Margaret's  voice. 

"I  was  just  telling  Margaret  about  the  charity  ball," 
she  said,  "and  the  way  the  girls  snubbed  Patty  Vetch 
hi  the  dressing-room." 

"And  it  was  a  very  good  account  of  young  barbarians 
at  play,"  commented  Mr.  Culpeper,  who  was  a  roman 
tic  soul  and  still  read  his  Byron. 

"Patty  Vetch?  Why,  isn't  that  the  daughter  of  the 
Governor?"  asked  Mrs.  Culpeper,  without  a  trace 
of  her  husband's  sympathy  for  the  victim  of  the 
"snubbing."  A  moment  later,  in  accordance  with  her 
mental  attitude  of  evasive  idealism,  she  added  briskly: 
"I  try  not  to  think  of  that  man  as  Governor  of 
Virginia." 

Of  course  the  subject  had  come  up.  Wherever 
Stephen  had  been  in  the  past  few  weeks  he  had  found 
that  the  conversation  turned  to  the  Governor;  and 
it  struck  him,  while  he  followed  the  line  of  girls 
headed  by  his  mother's  erect  figure  into  the  dining- 
room,  that,  for  good  or  bad,  the  influence  of  Gideon 
Vetch  was  as  prevalent  as  an  epidemic.  All  through  the 
long  and  elaborate  meal,  in  which  the  viands  that  his 
ancestors  had  preferred  were  served  ceremoniously  by 
slow-moving  coloured  servants,  he  listened  again  to  the 
familiar  discussion  and  analysis  of  the  demagogue,  as 
he  still  called  him.  How  little,  after  all,  did  any  one 
know  of  Gideon  Vetch?  Since  he  had  been  in  office  what 


76  ONE  MAN  IN  HIS  TIME 

had  they  learned  except  that  he  was  approachable 
in  human  relations  and  unapproachable  in  political 
ones? 

"I  wonder  if  Stephen  noticed  the  girl  at  the  ball?" 
said  Mrs.  Culpeper  suddenly,  looking  tenderly  at  her 
son  across  the  lovely  George  II  candlesticks  and  the 
dish  of  expensive  fruit,  for  she  could  never  reconcile 
with  her  ideas  of  economy  the  spending  of  a  penny  on 
decorations  so  ephemeral  as  flowers. 

"Oh,  he  couldn't  have  helped  it,"  responded  Mary 
Byrd.  "Every  one  saw  her.  She  was  dressed  very 
conspicuously . ' ' 

"Do  you  imply  that  you  were  not?"  inquired  her 
father,  without  facetious  intention. 

Mary  Byrd  beamed  indulgently  in  his  direction. 
"Oh,  you  don't  know  what  it  is  to  be  conspicuous, 
dear,"  she  answered.  "What  did  you  think  of  her 
dress,  Stephen?" 

He  met  her  question  with  a  blush.  Was  he  really 
so  modest  after  the  war  and  France  and  everything? — 
Victoria  wondered  in  silence. 

"It  was  something  red,  wasn't  it?"  he  rejoined 
vaguely. 

"It  was  scarlet  tulle."  Mary  Byrd,  as  her  mother  had 
once  observed,  "hadn't  an  indefinite  bone  in  her  body." 
Then  she  imparted  an  additional  incident.  "She  got  it 
badly  torn.  I  saw  her  pinning  it  up  in  the  dressing- 


room." 


"I  should  have  been  sorry  for  her,"  said  Margaret 
simply;  and  he  felt  that  he  had  never  in  his  life  been  so 
nearly  in  love  with  her. 

"Is  she  pretty?"  asked  Mrs.  Culpeper,  appealing 
directly  to  Stephen  as  a  man  and  an  authority.  It  was 


MARGARET  77 

the  question  the  strange  woman  had  put  to  him  in  the 
Square,  and  ironical  mirth  seized  the  young  man  as  he 
remembered. 

"Do  you  think  her  pretty,  Stephen?"  repeated  Mar 
garet,  and  waited,  with  an  expression  of  impartial  in 
terest,  for  his  reply. 

For  an  instant  he  hesitated.  Did  he  think  Patty 
Vetch  pretty  or  not?  "I  hardly  know,"  he  answered. 
"I  suppose  it  depends  upon  whether  you  like  that 
kind  of  thing  or  not.  Why  don't  you  ask  Peyton?" 
At  the  time  he  couldn't  have  told  himself  whether  he 
admired  Patty  or  not.  She  surprised  him,  she  struck 
a  new  note,  the  note  of  the  unexpected,  but  whether 
he  liked  or  disliked  it,  he  could  not  tell.  "There  is 
something  unusual  about  her,"  he  concluded  hurriedly, 
feeling  that  he  had  not  been  quite  fair. 

"Well,  I  think  she's  good  looking  enough,"  Peyton, 
the  incurious  young  man  of  "advanced"  tastes,  was 
replying.  "She  seems  to  have  a  kind  of  fascination. 
I  don't  know  what  it  is,  but  I  dare  say  she  inherited  it 
from  her  father.  The  Governor  may  be  unsound  in  his 
views  and  uncertain  in  his  methods,  but  I've  yet  to  see 
any  one  who  could  resist  his  smile." 

"The  Judge  admires  him,"  remarked  Stephen,  with 
the  air  of  a  man  who  tosses  a  bomb  into  a  legislative 
assembly. 

"Oh,  Stephen,"  protested  Victoria  on  a  high  note  of 
interrogation,  "how  can  he?" 

"The  Judge  likes  to  keep  up  well  with  the  times," 
observed  Mr.  Culpeper,  whose  final  argument  against 
any  innovation  was  the  inquiry,  "What  do  you  sup 
pose  General  Lee  would  have  thought  of  it?"  Pausing 
an  instant  while  the  family  hung  breathlessly  on  his 


78  ONE  MAN  IN  HIS  TIME 

words,  he  continued  herocially:  "Now,  it  doesn't 
bother  me  to  be  called  an  old  fogy." 

"There's  no  use  trying  to  hide  the  fact  that  the  Judge 
isn't  quite  what  he  used  to  be,"  said  Mrs.  Culpeper  in  an 
unusually  tolerant  tone.  "He  has  let  his  habit  of 
joking  grow  on  him  until  you  never  know  whether  he  is 
serious  or  simply  poking  fun  at  you." 

"The  next  thing  we  hear,"  suggested  Peyton,  who 
was  quite  dreadful  at  times,  "will  be  that  the  old  gentle 
man  admires  the  daughter  also." 

"He  doesn't  like  conspicuous  women,"  rejoined  Vic 
toria.  "He  told  me  so  only  the  other  day  when  Mrs. 
Bradford  announced  that  she  was  going  to  run  for  the 
legislature." 

"That's  the  kind  of  conspicuousness  we  all  object 
to,"  commented  Peyton;  "Patty  Vetch  isn't  that  sort." 

Janet  was  more  merciful.  "Well,  you  are  obliged  to 
be  conspicuous  to-day  if  you  want  anybody  to  notice 
you,"  she  said.  "Look  at  Mary  Byrd." 

Mary  Byrd  tossed  her  bright  head  as  gaily  as  if  a 
compliment  had  been  intended.  "Oh,  you  needn't 
think  I  like  to  dress  this  way,"  she  retorted,  "or  that  I 
don't  sometimes  get  tired  of  keeping  up  with  things. 
Why,  there  are  hours  and  hours  when  I  simply  feel  as  if 
I  should  drop." 

"Well,  as  long  as  you  look  like  that  you  needn't 
hope  for  a  change,"  remarked  Stephen  admiringly. 
Then,  turning  his  gaze  away  from  her  too  obvious 
brightness,  he  looked  into  the  tranquil  depths  of  Mar 
garet's  blue  eyes,  and  thought  how  much  more  restful 
the  old-fashioned  type  of  woman  must  have  been. 
Men  didn't  need  to  bestir  themselves  and  sharpen  their 
wits  with  women  like  that;  they  were  accepted,  with 


MARGARET  79 

their  inherent  virtues  or  vices,  as  philosophically  as 
one  accepted  the  seasons. 

It  was  a  dull  supper,  he  thought,  because  his  mind  was 
distracted;  but  a  little  later,  when  they  had  returned 
to  the  drawing-room,  and  the  family  had  drifted  away 
in  separate  directions — Mary  Byrd  and  Peyton  to 
a  dance,  his  father  to  his  library,  and  his  mother 
and  the  three  other  girls  to  a  game  of  bridge  in  the 
next  room,  he  received  an  amazing  revelation  of  Mar 
garet's  point  of  view.  His  sentiment  for  the  girl  had 
always  suffered,  he  was  aware,  from  too  many  oppor 
tunities.  He  had  sometimes  wished  that  an  obstacle 
might  arise,  that  the  formidable  parents  would  try  for 
once  to  tear  them  apart  instead  of  thrust  them  together, 
but,  in  spite  of  the  changeless  familiarity  of  their  associa 
tion,  he  was  presently  to  discover  how  little  he  had  known 
of  the  real  Margaret  beneath  the  flowing  grace  and  the 
nut-brown  hair  and  the  eyes  like  blue  larkspur.  Though 
the  tribal  customs  had  shaped  her  body  and  formed 
her  manners,  a  rare  essence  of  personality  escaped 
like  a  perfume  from  the  hereditary  mould  of  the 
race. 

As  he  looked  at  her  now,  sitting  gracefully  on  the 
ruby  brocade  of  one  of  the  rosewood  chairs,  with 
her  lovely  head  framed  by  the  band  of  intricate 
carving,  he  was  aware  that  the  delicate  subtleties  and 
shadings  of  her  feminine  charm  made  an  entirely  fresh 
appeal  to  his  perceptions,  if  not  to  his  senses.  He  had 
never  admired  her  appearance  more  than  he  did  at  that 
instant;  and  yet  his  gaze  was  as  dispassionate  as  the 
one  he  bestowed  on  the  Sully  portrait  of  which  she 
reminded  him.  Her  eyes  were  very  soft;  there  was  a 
faint  smile  on  her  thin  pink  lips  which  gave  the  look 


80  ONE  MAN  IN  HIS  TIME 

of  coldness,  of  reticence  to  her  face.  With  her  head 
bent  and  her  hands  folded  in  her  lap,  she  sat  there  wait 
ing  pensively — for  what?  It  occurred  to  him  suddenly 
with  a  shock  that  she  was  deeper,  far  deeper  than  he 
had  ever  suspected. 

"You  are  so  different  from  the  other  girls,  Margaret," 
he  said  at  last,  oppressed  by  the  old  difficulty  of  mak 
ing  conversation.  "You  don't  belong  to  the  same 

world  with  Mary  Byrd  and "  He  was  going  to  add 

"Patty  Vetch,"  but  he  checked  himself  before  the  name 
escaped  him. 

She  seemed  to  melt  rather  than  break  from  her  atti 
tude  of  waiting,  so  gently  did  her  movements  sink  into 
the  shadowy  glow  of  the  firelight. 

"No,  I  don't,"  she  replied,  with  a  touch  of  sadness. 
"I  sometimes  wish  that  I  did." 

"You  wish  that  you  did!"  Here  was  surprise  at 
last.  "But,  why,  in  Heaven's  name,  should  you  wish 
that  when  you  are  everything  that  they  ought  to  be?" 

"As  if  that  mattered!"  There  was  a  tone  in  her 
voice  that  was  new  to  him.  "It's  gone  out  of  fashion 
to  be  superior.  Nobody  even  cares  any  longer  about 
your  being  what  you  ought  to  be.  I've  been  trained 
to  be  the  kind  of  girl  that  doesn't  get  on  to-day,  full  of 
all  sorts  of  forgotten  virtues  and  refinements.  Nobody 
looks  at  me  because  everybody  is  staring  so  hard  at  the 
girls  who  are  improperly  dressed.  There  is  only  one 
place  where  I  can  be  sure  of  having  attention,  and  that 
is  in  an  Old  Ladies'  Home.  Old  ladies  admire  me." 

For  the  second  time  that  day  he  found  himself 
startled  by  the  eccentricities  of  the  feminine  mind; 
but  in  Margaret's  passive  resignation  there  was 
none  of  Patty's  rebellion  against  the  cruelty  and 


MARGARET  81 

injustice  of  life.  Generations  of  acquiescence  were 
in  the  slender  figure  before  him;  and  he  realized  that 
the  completeness  of  her  surrender  to  Fate  must  have 
softened  her  destiny.  Both  girls  were  victims  of  the 
changing  fashion  in  women,  of  an  age  that  moved  not 
in  a  stream,  but  in  a  whirlpool. 

"I  admire  you,"  he  said  in  a  caressing  voice,  "more 
than  I  admire  any  one  else  in  the  world." 

She  had  been  gazing  into  the  fire,  and  as  she  turned 
slowly  in  answer  to  his  words,  it  seemed  to  him  that 
the  blue  of  a  summer  sky  shone  on  him  from  beneath 
the  tremulous  shadow  of  her  eyelashes. 

"The  trouble,"  she  replied,  with  an  appealing  glance, 
"is  that  I  don't  know  how  to  be  common.  There 
isn't  any  hope  of  a  girl's  being  popular  if  she  doesn't 
knowT  how  to  be  common.  I  would  be  if  I  could,"  she 
confessed  plaintively,  "but  I  haven't  the  faintest  idea 
how  to  begin." 

"I  hope  you'll  never  learn,"  he  insisted.  In  awaken 
ing  his  sympathy  she  had  awakened  also  a  deep-rooted 
protective  instinct.  He  felt  that  he  longed  to  guard 
and  defend  her,  as  a  brother  of  course,  and  if  this 
newer  and  tenderer  sentiment  was  the  result  of  feminine 
calculation,  he  was  too  chivalrous  or  too  inexperienced 
to  perceive  it.  What  he  perceived  was  simply  that 
this  lovely  girl,  whom  he  had  known  from  infancy,  had 
opened  her  heart  and  taken  him  into  her  confidence. 
To  admit  that  she  was  not  a  success  in  her  small  social 
world,  proved  her,  he  felt,  to  be  both  frank  and  cour 
ageous. 

"Of  course  they  don't  call  their  way  common,"  she 
pursued,  with  what  seemed  to  him  the  most  touching 
candour.  "Their  word  for  it  is  'pep'."  She  pronounced 


82  ONE  MAN  IN  HIS  TIME 

the  vulgar  syllable  as  if  she  abhorred  it.  "That  is 
what  I  haven't  got,  and  that's  why  I  have  never  been 
a  real  success  in  anything  except  church  work.  Even 
in  the  Red  Cross  it  was  'pep'  that  counted  most,  and 
that  was  the  reason  they  never  sent  me  to  Europe. 
Mother  tried  to  make  me  into  the  kind  of  girl  that  men 
admired  when  she  was  young;  but  the  type  has  gone  out 
of  fashion  to-day  just  as  much  as  crinolines  or  a  small 
waist.  If  I  were  clever  I  suppose  I  could  make  myself 
over  and  begin  to  jump  about  and  imitate  the  sort  of 
animation  I  never  had;  but  I'm  not  really  clever,  for 
I've  tried  and  I  can't  do  it.  It  only  makes  me  feel  silly 
to  pretend  to  be  what  I  am  not." 

Her  confession  struck  him,  while  he  listened  to  it,  as 
the  sweetest  and  most  womanly  one  he  had  ever  heard. 

"I  cannot  imagine  your  pretending,"  he  answered, 
and  felt  that  the  remark  was  as  inane  as  if  he  had  quoted 
it  from  a  play.  After  a  moment,  as  she  seemed  to  be 
waiting  for  something,  he  continued  with  greater 
assurance,  "I  dare  say  they  have  a  quality  that  the 
older  generation  missed.  It  isn't  just  commonness. 
The  modern  spirit  means,  I  suppose,  a  breathless  vi 
tality.  We  are  more  intensely  alive  than  our  ances 
tors,  perhaps,  more  restless,  more  inclined  to  take 
risks." 

The  phrases  he  had  used  made  him  think  suddenly 
of  Gideon  Vetch.  Was  that  the  secret  of  the  Gover 
nor's  irresistible  magnetism,  of  his  meteoric  rise  into 
power?  He  embodied  the  modern  fetish — success;  he 
was,  in  the  lively  idiom  of  the  younger  set, — personified 
"pep."  After  all,  if  the  old  order  crumbled,  was  it  not 
because  of  its  own  weakness?  Was  not  the  fact  of  its 
decay  the  sign  of  some  secret  disintegration,  of  rottenness 


MARGARET  83 

at  the  core?  And  if  the  new  spirit  could  destroy,  per 
haps  it  could  build  as  well.  There  might  be  more  in  it, 
he  was  beginning  to  discern,  than  mere  lack  of  control, 
than  vulgar  hysteria  and  undisciplined  violence.  The 
quality  expressed  by  that  dreadful  word  was  the 
sparkle  on  the  edge  of  the  tempest,  the  lightning 
flash  that  revealed  the  presence  of  electricity  in  the 
air.  After  all,  the  god  of  the  future  was  riding  the 
whirlwind. 

"I  wonder  if  we  can  be  wrong,  you  and  I?"  he  went 
on  presently,  forgetting  the  intensely  personal  nature 
of  Margaret's  disclosures,  while  he  followed  the  ab 
stract  trend  of  his  reflections.  "Isn't  it  conceivable 
that  we  are  standing,  not  for  what  is  necessarily  better, 
but  simply  for  what  is  old?  Isn't  the  conservative 
merely  the  creature  of  habit?  I  suppose  the  older 
generation  always  looks  disapprovingly  at  the  younger, 
and,  in  spite  of  our  youth,  we  really  belong  to  the  past 
generation.  We  see  things  through  the  eyes  of  our 
parents.  We  are  mentally  middle-aged — for  middle 
age  is  a  state  of  mind,  after  all.  You  and  I  were  broken 
in  by  tradition — at  least  I  know  I  was,  and  even  the  war 
couldn't  free  me.  It  only  made  me  restless  and  dis 
satisfied.  It  destroyed  my  belief  in  the  past  without 
giving  me  faith  in  the  future.  It  left  me  eager  to  go 
somewhere;  but  it  failed  to  offer  me  any  direction.  It 
put  me  to  sea  without  a  compass." 

Clasping  his  hands  behind  his  head,  he  leaned  back 
against  the  carving  of  his  chair,  and  fixed  his  gaze  on 
the  portrait  of  the  English  ancestress  over  the  mantel 
piece.  The  firelight  flickered  over  his  firm,  clear-cut 
features,  over  the  sleek  dark  hair,  which  was  brushed 
straight  back  from  his  forehead,  and  over  his  sombre 


84  ONE  MAN  IN  HIS  TIME 

smoke-coloured  eyes  in  which  a  dusky  glow  came  and 
went.  Margaret,  watching  him  with  her  pensive 
smile,  thought  that  she  had  never  seen  him  look  so 
"interesting." 

"We  used  to  talk  in  those  first  days  about  the 
'spiritual  effect'  of  the  war,"  he  resumed  dreamily, 
speaking  more  to  himself  than  to  his  companion. 
"As  if  organized  violence  could  have  a  steadying 
effect — could  have  any  results  that  are  not  the  offspring 
of  violence.  It  is  hard  for  me  to  talk  about  it.  I've 
never  even  tried  before  to  put  it  into  words;  but  we  are 
both  suffering  from  the  same  cause,  I  think.  I  know 
it  has  played  the  very  deuce  with  my  life.  It  has 
made  me  discontented  with  what  I  have;  but  it  hasn't 
shown  me  anything  else  that  was  worth  striving  for. 
I  seem  to  have  lost  the  power  of/ wanting  because  I've 
discovered  that  nothing  is  worth  having  after  you  get 
it.  Every  apple  has  turned  into  Dead  Sea  fruit." 

He  had  never  before  spoken  so  freely,  and  when  he 
had  finished  he  felt  awkward  and  half  resentful.  Mar 
garet's  extraordinary  frankness  had  started  him,  he 
supposed,  on  a  similar  strain;  but  he  wished  that  he  had 
kept  back  all  that  sentimental  nonsense  about  what 
his  mother  called  disapprovingly,  his  "frame  of  mind." 
Any  frame  of  mind  except  the  permanently  settled 
appeared  unsafe  to  Mrs.  Culpeper;  and  her  son  felt 
at  the  moment  that  her  opinion  was  justified.  Some 
how  the  whole  thing  seemed  to  have  resulted  from  his 
meeting  with  Gideon  Vetch.  It  was  Vetch  who  had 
"unsettled"  him,  who  had  taken  the  wind  out  of  the 
stiff  sails  of  his  prejudices.  Had  the  war  awakened 
in  him,  he  wondered,  the  need  of  crude  emotional 
stimulants,  the  dangerous  allurement  of  the  unfamiliar. 


MARGARET  85 

the  exotic?  Would  it  ever  pass,  and  would  life  become 
again  normal  and  placid  without  losing  its  zest  and  its 
interest?  For  it  was  the  zest  of  life,  he  realized,  that  he 
had  encountered  in  Gideon  Vetch. 

"But  you  are  a  man,"  Margaret  was  saying  plain 
tively.  "Everything  is  easier  for  a  man.  You  can  go 
out  and  do  things." 

"So  can  women  now.  You  can  even  go  into  poli 
tics." 

She  made  a  pretty  gesture  of  aversion.  "Oh,  I've 
been  too  well  brought  up!  There  isn't  any  hope  for  a 
girl  who  is  well  brought  up  except  the  church,  and 
even  there  she  can't  do  anything  but  sit  and  listen  to 
sermons.  Mother's  consolation,"  she  added  with  a 
soft  little  laugh,  "is  that  I  should  have  been  a  belle  and 
beauty  hi  the  days  when  Madison  was  President." 

Then  putting  the  subject  aside  as  if  she  had  finished 
with  it  for  ever,  she  began  talking  to  him  about  the 
books  she  was  reading.  Of  all  the  girls  he  knew  she 
was  the  only  one  who  ever  opened  a  book  except  one 
that  had  been  forbidden. 

An  hour  later,  when  Margaret  went  home  with 
her  father,  Stephen  turned  back,  after  putting  her  into 
the  car,  with  a  warmer  emotion  in  his  heart  than  he 
had  ever  felt  for  her  before.  She  was  not  only  lovely 
and  gentle;  she  had  revealed  unexpected  qualities  of 
mind  which  might  develop  later  into  an  attraction  that 
he  had  never  dreamed  she  could  possess.  Never,  he  felt, 
had  the  outlook  appeared  so  desirable.  He  was  in 
that  particular  dreaminess  of  mood  when  one  is  easily 
borne  off  on  waves  of  sentiment  or  imagination;  and  it 
is  possible  that,  if  his  mother  had  been  able  to  refrain 
from  improving  perfection,  he  might  have  found  himself 


86  ONE  MAN  IN  HIS  TIME 

sufficiently  in  love  with  Margaret  for  all  practical 
purposes.  But  Mrs.  Culpeper,  who  had  no  need  of 
dissimulation  since  she  had  always  got  things  by  show 
ing  that  she  wanted  them  entirely  for  the  good  of 
others,  was  incapable  of  leaving  her  son  to  work  out  his 
own  future.  When  he  entered  the  house  again  he 
found  her  awaiting  him  at  the  foot  of  the  staircase. 

"I  hope  you  had  a  pleasant  evening,  Stephen." 

"Yes,  Mother,  very  pleasant." 

"Margaret  is  a  dear  girl,  and  so  well  brought  up. 
Her  mother  has  a  great  deal  for  which  to  be  thankful." 

"A  great  deal,  I  am  sure."  A  sharp  sense  of  irritation 
had  dispelled  the  dreamy  sentiment  with  which  he  had 
parted  from  Margaret.  To  his  mother,  he  knew,  the 
evening  appeared  only  as  one  more  carefully  planned 
and  carelessly  neglected  opportunity;  and  the  knowledge 
of  this  exasperated  him  in  a  measure  that  was  absurdly 
disproportionate  to  the  cause. 

"She  is  so  refreshing  after  the  things  you  hear  about 
other  girls,"  pursued  Mrs.  Culpeper.  "Poor  Mrs.  St. 
John  was  obliged  to  go  to  a  rest  cure,  they  say,  because 
of  the  worry  she  has  had  over  Geraldine;  and  the  other 
girls  are  almost  as  troublesome,  I  suppose.  That  is 
why  I  am  so  thankful  that  you  should  have  taken  a 
fancy  to  Margaret.  She  is  just  the  kind  of  girl  I 
should  like  to  have  for  a  daughter-in-law." 

"You'll  have  a  long  time  to  wait,  Mother.  I  don't 
want  to  marry  anybody  until  I  need  a  nurse  in  my 
old  age." 

He  spoke  jestingly,  but  his  mother,  with  her  usual 
tenacity,  held  fast  to  the  subject.  Under  the  flicker 
ing  gas  light  in  the  hall  (they  were  still  suspicious  of 
the  effect  of  electricity  on  Mr.  Culpeper's  eyes)  her 


MARGARET  87 

face  looked  grimly  determined,  as  if  an  indomitable 
purpose  had  moulded  every  feature  and  traced  every 
line  in  some  thin  plastic  substance. 

"I  have  set  my  heart  on  this,  Stephen." 

At  this  he  laughed  aloud  with  an  indecorous  mirth. 
In  spite  of  her  instincts  and  traditions  how  lacking 
in  feminine  finesse,  how  utterly  without  subtlety  of 
method  she  was!  She  had  stood  always  for  the  un 
conquerable  will  in  the  fragile  body,  and  she  had  used 
to  the  utmost  her  two  strong  weapons  of  obstinacy  and 
weakness.  He  did  not  know  whether  the  dread  of  being 
nagged  or  the  fear  of  hurting  her  had  influenced  him 
most;  and  when  he  looked  back  he  could  recall  only 
a  series  of  ineffectual  efforts  at  evasion  or  denial.  It 
is  true  that  he  had  once  adored  her — that  he  still 
loved  her — but  it  was  a  love,  like  his  father's,  which 
was  forbearing  but  never  free,  which  was  always  fur 
tive  and  a  little  ashamed  of  its  own  weakness.  Ever 
since  he  could  remember  she  had  triumphed  over  their 
inclinations,  their  convictions,  and  even  their  appe 
tites,  for  they  had  eaten  only  what  she  thought  good 
for  them.  She  had  invariably  gained  her  point;  and 
she  had  gained  it  with  few  words,  without  temper  or 
agitation,  by  sheer  force  of  character.  If  she  had  been 
a  moral  principle  she  could  not  have  moved  more 
relentlessly. 

"Mrs.  Blair  and  I  used  to  talk  it  over  when  you  and 
Margaret  were  children,"  she  continued,  in  the  in 
flexible  tone  with  which  she  was  accustomed  to  carry 
her  point.  "Even  then  you  were  fond  of  her." 

He  looked  at  her  with  a  gleam  of  the  tolerant  amuse 
ment  he  had  caught  from  his  father's  expression. 
"  Can  you  imagine  anything  more  certain  to  turn  a  man 


88  ONE  MAN  IN  HIS  TIME 

against  a  marriage  than  the  thought  that  it  was  ar 
ranged  for  him  in  his  infancy?"  he  objected. 

"Not  if  he  knew  that  his  mother  had  set  her  heart 
on  it?"  She  looked  hurt  but  resolute. 

"Don't  set  your  heart  on  it,  Mother.  Let  me  dree 
my  own  weird." 

"My  dear  boy,  it  is  for  your  own  good.  I  am  sure 
that  you  know  I  am  not  thinking  of  myself.  I  may 
say  with  truth  that  I  never  think  of  myself." 

It  was  true.  She  never  thought  of  herself;  but  he 
had  sometimes  wondered  what  worse  things  could  have 
happened  if  she  had  occasionally  done  so. 

"I  know  that,  Mother,"  he  answered  simply. 

"I  have  but  one  wish  in  life  and  that  is  to  see  my 
children  happy,"  she  said,  with  an  air  of  injured  dig 
nity  which  made  him  feel  curiously  guilty. 

It  was  the  old  infallible  method,  he  knew.  She 
would  never  yield  her  point;  she  would  never  relax 
her  pressure;  she  would  never  admit  defeat  until  he 
married  another  woman. 

"I  want  nobody  else  in  your  place,  Mother.  Good 
night,  and  try  to  set  your  heart  on  something  else." 

As  he  undressed  a  little  later  he  was  thinking  of 
Margaret — of  her  low  white  brow  under  the  "widow's 
peak,"  of  her  soft  blue  eyes,  of  her  goodness  and 
gentleness,  and  of  the  thrill  in  her  voice  when  she  had 
made  that  touching  confession.  Margaret's  voice 
was  the  last  thing  he  thought  of  before  falling  asleep; 
but  hours  afterward,  when  the  dawn  was  beginning  to 
break,  he  dreamed  of  Patty  Vetch  in  her  red  cape  and 
of  that  hidden  country  of  the  endless  roads  and  the 
far  horizons. 


CHAPTER  VI 

MAGIC 

THE  next  day  after  luncheon,  as  Stephen  walked  from 
his  club  to  his  office,  he  lived  over  again  his  evening  with 
Margaret.  "If  she  cared  for  me  it  might  be  different," 
he  mused;  and  then,  through  some  perversity  of 
memory,  Margaret's  pensive  smile  became  suddenly 
charged  with  emotion,  and  he  asked  himself  if  he 
had  not  misinterpreted  her  innocent  frankness?  Even 
if  she  cared,  he  knew  that  she  would  die  rather 
than  betray  her  preference  by  a  word  or  a  look. 
"Whether  she  cares  or  not,  and  it  is  just  possible  that 
she  does  care  in  her  heart,  she  will  marry  me  if  I  ask 
her,"  he  thought;  and  decided  immediately  that  there 
was  no  necessity  to  act  impulsively  in  the  matter. 
"If  I  ask  her  she  will  persuade  herself  that  she  loves 
me.  She  will  marry  me  just  as  hundreds  of  women 
have  married  men  in  the  past;  and  we  should  probably 
live  as  long  and  as  happily  as  all  the  others."  That 
was  the  way  his  father  and  mother  had  married;  and 
why  were  he  and  Margaret  different  from  the  gener 
ations  before  them?  What  variable  strain  in  their 
natures  impelled  them  to  lead  their  own  separate  lives 
instead  of  the  collective  life  of  the  family?  "I  suppose 
Mother  is  right  as  far  as  she  sees,"  he  admitted.  "To 
marry  Margaret  and  settle  down  would  be  the  best 
thing  that  could  happen  to  me."  Yet  he  had  no 
sooner  put  the  thought  into  words  than  the  old  feel- 

89 


90  ONE  MAN  IN  HIS  TIME 

ing  of  suffocation  rushed  over  him  as  if  his  hopes  were 
smothered  in  ashes. 

Yes,  he  would  settle  down,  of  course,  but  not  now. 
Next  year  perhaps,  or  the  year  after,  he  would  sin 
cerely  fall  in  love  with  Margaret,  and  then  everything 
would  be  different. 

He  was  passing  through  the  Square  at  the  moment; 
and  while  he  played  with  the  idea  of  his  marriage 
with  Margaret,  he  found  himself  glancing  expectantly 
at  the  car  which  was  waiting  in  front  of  the  Governor's 
door.  "I  wonder  if  she  is  going  out,"  he  thought, 
while  a  superficial  interest  brightened  the  dull  hours 
before  him.  "It  would  be  no  more  than  she  deserved 
if  I  were  to  go  in  and  ask  after  her  ankle."  In  obedi 
ence  to  the  mocking  impulse,  he  entered  the  gate  and 
reached  the  steps  just  as  Patty  came  out  on  the  porch. 
She  was  walking  with  ease,  he  noticed  at  once,  and 
she  wore  again  the  red  cape  and  the  little  hat  with 
red  wings. 

"Oh,"  she  exclaimed,  "it  is  you!" 

"I  stopped  to  ask  after  your  ankle,"  he  retorted 
with  ironic  gaiety.  "I  am  glad  it  doesn't  keep  you 
from  walking." 

"That's  the  new  way  of  treating  a  sprain,"  she  re 
plied  calmly.  "Haven't  you  heard  of  it?" 

"Yes,  I've  heard  of  it."  He  glanced  down  at  her 
stocking  of  thin  gray  silk.  "But  I  thought  even 
then  there  were  bandages." 

She  smiled  archly — he  felt  that  he  wanted  to  slap 
her — and  glanced  up  at  him  with  playful  concern. 
The  gray-green  rays  were  brighter  in  the  daylight  than 
he  had  remembered  them  and  her  mocking  lips  were 
the  colour  of  cherries.  He  thought  of  the  thin  pink 


MAGIC  91 

curve  of  Margaret's  mouth  and  wondered  if  the  war 
had  corrupted  his  taste. 

Yes,  Margaret  was  womanly;  she  was  well  bred; 
she  possessed  every  attribute  that  in  theory  he  admired ; 
yet  she  had  never  awakened  this  sparkling  interest, 
this  attraction  which  was  pungently  flavoured  with 
surprise  that  he  could  be  so  strangely  attracted.  He 
could  gaze  unmoved  by  the  hour  on  Margaret's  smooth 
loveliness;  but  the  tantalizing  vision  of  this  other  girl's 
face,  of  her  cloudy  black  hair  and  her  clear  skin  and 
her  changeable  eyes,  with  their  misty  gleam  like  a 
firefly  lost  in  a  spring  marsh — all  these  things  were 
a  part  not  of  the  tedious  actuality,  but  of  that  hidden 
country  of  romance  and  adventure.  For  the  first 
time  since  his  return  from  France,  he  was  carried  far 
outside  of  himself  on  the  wave  of  an  impulse;  he  was 
interested  and  excited.  Not  for  an  instant  did  he 
imagine  that  he  was  falling  in  love.  His  thoughts 
did  not  leave  the  immediate  present  when  he  was  with 
her;  and  a  part  of  the  adventure  was  the  feeling  that 
each  vivid  moment  he  spent  with  her  might  be  the  last. 
It  was,  he  would  have  said  had  he  undertaken  to 
analyse  the  situation,  merely  an  incident;  but  it  was  an 
incident  that  delighted  him.  He  knew  nothing  of 
Patty  Vetch  except  that  she  charmed  him  against  his 
will;  and,  for  the  moment  at  least,  this  was  suffi 
cient. 

"Oh,  there  are  sprains  and  sprains,"  she  answered, 
with  the  quiver  of  her  lip  he  remembered  so  disturb 
ingly.  "Didn't  you  learn  that  in  the  trenches?" 
Was  she  really  pretty,  or  was  it  only  the  provocative 
appeal  to  his  imagination,  the  dangerous  sense  that  you 
never  knew  what  she  would  dare  to  say  next? 


92  ONE  MAN  IN  HIS  TIME 

"I  didn't  go  there  to  learn  about  sprains,"  he  re 
sponded  gravely. 

"Nor  about  manoeuvres  apparently?"  She  hesi 
tated  over  the  word  as  if  it  were  unfamiliar. 

At  her  charge  the  light  of  battle  leaped  to  his  eyes. 
"Then  it  was  a  manoeuvre?  I  suspected  as  much." 

The  audacity  of  her!  The  unparalleled  audacity! 
"But  I  am  not  so  much  interested  in  manoeuvres," 
he  added  merrily,  "as  I  am  in  the  strategy  behind 
them." 

She  looked  puzzled,  though  her  manner  was  still 
mocking.  "Is  there  always  strategy,"  she  pronounced 
the  word  with  care,  "behind  them?" 

"Always  in  the  art  of  warfare." 

"But  can't  there  be  a  manoeuvre  without  warfare?" 
He  could  see  that  she  was  venturing  beyond  her 
depths;  but  he  realized  that  a  confession  of  ignor 
ance  was  the  last  thing  he  must  ever  expect  from 
her.  Whatever  the  challenge  she  would  meet  it  with 
her  natural  wit  and  her  bright  derision. 

"Never,"  he  rejoined  emphatically.  "A  campaign 
goes  either  before  or  afterward." 

A  thoughtful  frown  knit  her  forehead.  "Well,  one 
didn't  go  before,  did  it?"  she  inquired  with  an  inno 
cent  air.  "So  I  suppose " 

He  ended  her  sentence  on  a  note  of  merriment. 
"Then  I  must  be  prepared  for  the  one  that  will  fol 
low!" 

She  threw  out  her  hand  with  a  gesture  of  mock  de 
spair.  "Oh,  you  may  have  been  mistaken,  you  know ! " 

4  *  Mistaken  ?     About  the  campaign  ? ' ' 

"No,  about  the  manoeuvre.  Perhaps  there  wasn't 
any  such  thing,  after  all." 


MAGIC  93 

"Perhaps."  Though  his  voice  was  stern,  his  eyes 
were  laughing.  "I  am  not  so  easily  fooled  as 
that." 

"I  doubt  if  you  could  be  fooled  at  all."  It  was  the 
first  bit  of  flattery  she  had  tossed  him,  and  he  found 
it  strangely  agreeable. 

"I  am  not  sure  of  that,"  he  answered,  "but  the 
thing  that  perplexes  me — the  only  thing — is  why  you 
should  have  thought  it  worth  while." 

Her  eyes  grew  luminous  with  laughter,  and  the  little 
red  wings  quivered  as  if  they  were  about  to  take  flight 
over  her  arching  brows.  "How  do  you  know  that  I 
thought  about  it  at  all?  Sometimes  things  just  hap 
pen." 

"But  not  in  this  case.  You  had  arranged  the  whole 
incident  for  the  stage." 

"Do  you  mean  that  I  fell  down  on  purpose?" 

"I  mean  that  you  were  laughing  up  your  sleeve  all 
the  time.  You  weren't  hurt  and  you  knew  it." 

Her  expression  was  enigmatical.  "You  think  then 
that  I  arranged  to  fall  down  and  risk  breaking  my  bones 
for  the  sake  of  having  you  pick  me  up?"  she  asked 
demurely. 

Put  so  plainly  the  fact  sounded  embarrassing,  if  not 
incredible.  "I  think  you  fell  for  the  fun  of  it.  I 
think  also  that  you  didn't  for  a  second  risk  breaking 
your  bones.  You  are  too  nimble  for  that." 

"I  ought  to  be,"  she  retorted  daringly,  "since  I  was 
born  in  a  circus." 

Surprised  into  silence,  he  studied  her  with  a  regard  in 
which  admiration  for  her  courage  was  mingled  with 
blank  wonder  at  her  recklessness.  If  she  had  inherited 
her  father's  gift  of  expression,  she  appeared  to  possess 


94  ONE  MAN  IN  HIS  TIME 

also  his  dauntless  humour.  For  an  instant  Stephen 
felt  that  her  gaiety  had  entered  into  his  spirit;  and  while 
his  impression  of  her  danced  like  wine  in  his  head,  he 
answered  her  in  her  own  tone  of  mocking  defiance. 

"Well,  everything  that  is  born  in  a  circus  isn't  a 
clown." 

Her  eyes  widened.  "Is  that  meant  for  a  compli 
ment?" 

"No,  merely  for  a  reminder.  But  if  you  were  born 
in  a  circus,  I  assume  that  you  didn't  perform  in  one." 

She  shook  her  head.  "No,  they  took  me  away  when 
I  was  a  baby — just  after  Mother  died.  I  never  lived 
with  the  circus  people,  and  Father  didn't  either  except 
when  he  was  a  child.  Not  that  I  should  have  been 
ashamed  of  it,"  she  hastened  to  explain.  "They  are 
very  interesting  people." 

"I  am  sure  of  it,"  he  answered  gravely,  and  he  was 
very  sure  of  it  now. 

"When  I  was  a  child,"  she  went  on  in  a  matter-of- 
fact  tone,  "I  used  to  make  Father  tell  me  all  he  could 
remember  about  the  'freaks,'  as  they  called  them. 
The  fat  woman — her  name  was  really  Mrs.  Coventry 
— was  very  kind  to  him  when  he  was  little,  and  he 
never  forgot  it.  He  never  forgets  anybody  who  has 
ever  been  kind  to  him,"  she  concluded  with  simple 
dignity. 

An  emotion  which  he  could  not  define  held  Stephen 
speechless;  and  before  he  could  command  his  words, 
she  began  again  in  the  same  cool  and  quiet  voice. 
"His  mother  ran  away  to  marry  his  father.  She  came 
of  a  very  good  family  in  Fredericksburg,  and  her  people 
never  forgave  her  or  spoke  to  her  afterward.  But 
she  was  happy,  and  she  never  regretted  it  as  long  as 


MAGIC  95 

she  lived.  It  was  love  at  first  sight.  Grandfather 

was  Irish  and  he  was — was "  she  hesitated  for  a 

word,  and  at  last  with  evident  care  selected,  "magnifi 
cent."  "He  was  magnificent,"  she  repeated  emphati 
cally,  "and  she  saw  him  first  on  horseback  when  she 
was  out  riding.  Her  horse  became  frightened  by  one 
of  the  animals  in  the  circus,  and  he  caught  it  and  stop 
ped  it.  It  began  that  way,  and  then  one  night  she 
stole  out  of  the  house  after  her  family  had  gone  to  bed, 
and  they  ran  away  and  were  married.  I  think  she 
was  right,"  she  added  thoughtfully,  "but  then  I  reckon 
— I  mean  I  suppose  it  is  in  my  blood  to  take  risks." 

She  looked  up  at  him  and  he  responded.  "  But  where 
did  you  learn  to  see  things  like  this,  and  to  put  them 
into  words?  Not  in  a  circus?" 

"I  told  you  I  couldn't  remember  the  circus.  Mother 
was  in  one,  and  though  Father  never  told  me  how  he 
fell  in  love  with  her — he  never  talks  of  her — I  think 
it  must  have  been  when  he  went  back  to  see  the  people. 
He  always  took  an  interest  in  them  and  tried  to  help 
them.  He  does  still.  Even  now,  if  anybody  belonging 
to  a  circus  asks  him  for  something,  he  never  refuses 
him.  When  he  was  twelve  years  old  somebody  took 
him  away  and  sent  him  to  school,  but  he  always  says 
he  never  learned  anything  at  school  except  misinfor 
mation  about  life.  No  books,  he  says,  ever  taught  him 
the  truth  except  the  Bible  and  'Robinson  Crusoe.'  He 
used  to  read  me  chapters  of  those  every  day — and  he 
does  still  when  he  has  the  time." 

What  a  strange  world  it  was!  How  full  of  colour 
and  incident,  how  drenched  with  the  quality  of  the 
unusual ! 

"And  what  did  you  learn?"  he  asked. 


96  ONE  MAN  IN  HIS  TIME 

"I?"  She  was  speaking  earnestly.  "Oh,  I  learned 
a  great  many — no,  a  multitude  of  things  about  life." 

At  this  he  broke  into  a  laugh  of  pure  delight.  "With 
a  special  course  of  instruction  in  manoeuvres,"  he  re 
joined. 

Though  her  smile  showed  perplexity  she  tossed  back 
his  innuendo  with  defiance.  "And  by  the  time  we 
meet  again  I  shall  have  learned  about — strategy." 

How  ready  she  was  to  fence,  and  how  quick  with 
her  attack!  It  was  easy  to  believe  that  there  was  Irish 
blood  in  her  veins  and  an  Irish  sparkle  in  her  wit. 

"Oh,  then  you  will  out-general  me  entirely!  Isn't 
it  enough  to  force  me  to  acknowledge  your  superior 
tactics?" 

She  appeared  to  scrutinize  each  separate  letter. 
"Tactics?  Have  I  been  using  superior  tactics  without 
knowing  it?" 

"That  I  can't  answer.  Is  there  anything  that  has 
escaped  your  instinctive  understanding?" 

She  laughed  softly.  "Well,  there's  one  thing  you 
may  be  sure  of.  I'll  know  a  great  deal  more  about  some 
things  by  the  time  I  see  you  again."  Then,  with  one 
of  her  darting  bird-like  movements,  she  ran  down 
the  steps  and  into  the  car.  "I  wish  Father  were  here," 
she  said,  looking  out  at  him.  "He  wants  to  talk  to 
you." 

"I  should  like  to  talk  to  him.  I  shall  come  again, 
if  I  may." 

"Oh,  of  course,  and  next  time  we  may  both  be  at 
home."  As  the  car  started  she  called  out  teasingly. 
"My  next  manoeuvre  may  be  more  successful,  you 
know!" 

How  provoking  she  was,  and  how  inspiriting!     Was 


MAGIC  97 

she  as  shrewd,  as  sophisticated,  as  she  tried  to  appear, 
or  was  he  merely,  he  asked  himself,  the  victim  of  her 
irrepressible  humour,  of  a  prodigious  display  of  the 
modern  spirit?  At  least  she  was  a  part  of  her  time — 
not,  like  Margaret  and  himself,  a  discordant  note,  a 
divergent  atom,  in  the  general  march  toward  reckless 
ness  and  unrestraint.  Young  as  she  was,  he  felt  that 
she  had  already  solved  the  problems  which  he  had 
evaded  or  pushed  aside.  She  had  learned  the  secret 
of  transition — a  perpetual  motion  that  went  in  circles 
and  was  never  still.  Here,  he  realized,  was  where  he 
had  lost  connection,  where  he  had  failed  to  hold  his 
place  in  the  turmoil.  He  had  tried  to  stand  off  and 
reach  a  point  of  view,  to  become  a  spectator,  while  the 
only  way  to  fit  into  the  century  was  simply  to  keep 
moving  in  whirls  of  unintelligent  unison;  never  to 
meditate,  never  to  reason  upon  one's  course;  but  to 
sweep  onward,  somewhere,  anywhere  as  long  as  it 
was  in  a  new  direction.  Elasticity,  variability — were 
not  these  the  indispensable  qualities  of  the  modern 
mind?  The  power  to  make  quick  decisions  and  the 
inability  to  cling  to  convictions;  the  nervous  high  pitch 
and  the  failure  to  sustain  the  triumphant  note;  energy 
without  direction;  success  without  stability;  martyrdom 
without  faith.  And  around,  above,  beneath,  the  per 
vading  mediocrity,  the  apotheosis  of  the  average. 
Was  this  the  best  that  democracy  had  to  offer  man 
kind?  Was  there  no  depth  below  the  shallows?  Was 
it  impossible,  even  by  the  most  patient  search,  to  dis 
cover  some  justification  of  the  formlessness  of  the  age, 
of  the  crazy  instinct  for  ugliness?  He  could  forgive 
it  all,  he  might  eventually  bring  his  mind  to  believe 
in  it,  if  there  were  only  some  logical  design  informing 


98  ONE  MAN  IN  HIS  TIME 

the  disorder.  If  he  could  find  that  it  contained  a 
single  redeeming  principle  that  was  superior  to  the  old 
order,  he  felt  that  he  should  be  able  to  surrender  his 
disbelief. 

He  was  leaving  the  gate  when  a  woman,  walking 
slowly  in  front  of  the  house,  spoke  to  him  abruptly. 

"If  I  wait  here  shall  I  see  the  Governor  come 
out?" 

With  the  feeling  that  he  was  passing  again  through 
a  familiar  nightmare,  he  turned  quickly  and  looked 
down  on  the  pathetic  figure  he  had  seen  the  evening 
before.  In  the  daylight  she  seemed  more  pitiable 
and  less  repellent  than  she  had  appeared  in  the  darkness. 
The  hollowness  of  her  features  gave  a  certain  dignity 
to  her  expression — the  look  of  one  who  is  returning 
from  the  shadows  of  death.  Years  ago,  before  illness 
or  dissipation  had  wrecked  her  health  and  her  ap 
pearance,  she  may  have  been  attractive,  he  surmised, 
in  a  common  and  obvious  fashion.  Her  black  eyes  were 
still  striking,  and  the  sunlight  revealed  a  quantity 
of  coarse  black  hair  on  which  he  detected  the  claret 
tinge  of  fading  dye. 

"I  am  sorry,"  she  added  as  she  recognized  him. 
"I  did  not  know  it  was  you."  As  soon  as  she  had 
spoken  she  became  confused  and  tried  to  pass  on;  but 
he  made  a  movement  to  detain  her. 

"Have  you  any  particular  reason  for  wishing  to  see 
the  Governor?" 

"Oh,  no,  I  am  a  stranger  here."  Her  accents  were 
ordinary,  yet  there  was  a  note  of  the  unusual  in  her  ap 
pearance  and  manner.  Whatever  she  was,  she  was  not 
commonplace. 

"But  you  were  waiting  to  see  him?"  he  said. 


MAGIC  99 

Her  gaze  left  his  face  and  travelled  uncertainly  over 
the  mansion.  "Oh,  yes,  I  thought  I  might  see  him. 
I've  never  seen  a  Governor." 

"You  do  not  wish  to  speak  to  him?" 

"No;  why  should  I  wish  to  speak  to  him?  I'm  a 
stranger,  that's  all.  I  like  to  see  whatever  is  going  on. 
Was  that  his  daughter  who  went  out  just  now?" 

"Yes,  that  was  his  daughter." 

"Then    she    is    pretty — almost    as    pretty    as 

Thank  you,  sir.  I  will  go  along  now.  I'm  staying 
not  far  from  here,  and  I  come  out  when  I  get  the  chance 
to  watch  the  squirrels  in  the  Square." 

The  explanation  sounded  simple  enough;  yet  he 
suspected,  though  he  could  not  have  defined  his  reason, 
that  she  was  not  telling  the  truth.  Again  he  asked 
himself  if  she  could  have  known  Gideon  Vetch  in  the 
past?  It  was  possible;  it  was  not  even  improbable. 
Once,  even  ten  or  fifteen  years  ago,  she  may  have  been 
handsome  in  her  coarse  and  showy  style;  and  he  had 
no  proof,  except  Patty,  that  the  Governor  had  ever 
possessed  a  fastidious  taste. 

The  woman  had  turned  with  furtive  haste  in  the 
direction  of  the  outer  gate;  and  when  Stephen  started 
on  again  toward  the  library,  he  crossed  a  man  who  was 
rapidly  ascending  the  brick  walk  from  the  fountain 
at  the  foot  of  the  hill.  By  his  jaunty  stride  and  his  air 
of  excessive  joviality  — the  mark  of  the  successful  local 
politician — Stephen  recognized  Julius  Gershom,  the 
campaign-maker,  as  people  called  him,  who  had  stood 
behind  Gideon  Vetch  from  the  beginning  of  his  career. 
"What  an  unconscionable  bounder  the  fellow  is," 
thought  Stephen  as  he  passed  him.  WTiat  an  abun 
dance  of  self-assertiveness  he  had  contrived  to  express 


100  ONE  MAN  IN  HIS  TIME 

in  his  thin  spruce  figure,  his  tightly  curling  black  hair, 
which  grew  too  low  on  his  forehead,  and  his  short  black 
moustache  with  pointed  ends  which  curved  up  like 
polished  metal  from  his  full  red  lips. 

"I  suppose  he  is  on  his  way  to  the  Governor,"  mused 
the  young  man  idly.  "How  on  earth  does  Vetch 
stand  him?" 

But  to  his  surprise,  when  he  glanced  back  again,  he 
saw  that  Gershom  had  passed  the  mansion,  and  was 
hurrying  down  the  walk  which  the  strange  woman  had 
followed  a  moment  before.  Stephen  could  still  see 
her  figure  approaching  a  distant  gate;  and  he  observed 
presently  that  Gershom  was  not  far  behind  her,  and 
that  he  appeared  to  be  speaking  her  name.  She  started 
and  turned  quickly  with  a  movement  of  alarm;  and 
then,  as  Gershom  joined  her,  she  went  on  again  in  the 
direction  she  had  first  taken.  A  few  minutes  later 
their  rapidly  moving  figures  left  the  Square  and  passed 
down  the  street  beyond  the  high  iron  fence. 

"I  wonder  what  it  means?"  thought  Stephen  in 
differently.  "I  wonder  what  the  deuce  Gershom  has 
got  up  his  sleeve?" 

By  the  time  he  reached  his  office  the  wonder  had 
vanished;  but  it  returned  to  him  on  his  way  home  that 
afternoon  when  he  dropped  into  the  old  print  shop  for 
a  word  with  Corinna. 

"I  passed  that  fellow  Gershom  in  the  Square  to 
day,"  he  said.  "Do  you  know  him  by  sight?" 

She  shook  her  head.  "What  is  he  like?  Patty 
tells  me  that  he  has  become  a  nuisance." 

"Ah,  then  you  have  seen  Patty?" 

A  smile  turned  her  eyes  to  the  colour  of  November 
leaves.  "She  was  here  for  an  hour  this  morning.  I 


MAGIC  101 

have  great  hopes  of  her.  I  think  she  is  going  to  supply 
me  with  an  interest  in  life." 

"Then  she  still  amuses  you?" 

"Amuses  me?  My  dear,  she  enchants  me.  She 
stands  for  the  suppressed  audacities  of  my  past." 

He  looked  at  her  thoughtfully.  "I  wonder  how 
much  of  her  is  real?" 

"Probably  half.  She  is  real,  I  think,  in  her  courage, 
but  not  in  her  conventions." 

"Well,  I  confess  that  she  puzzles  me.  I  can't  see 
just  what  she  means." 

"I  doubt  if  she  means  anything.  She  is  a  vital 
spirit;  she  chafes  at  chains;  and  she  is  smarting  from  a 
sense  of  inferiority.  There  is  a  thirst  for  power  in  her 
little  body  that  may  make  her  either  an  actress  or  a 
politician." 

"Now,  it  seems  to  me  that  if  she  has  any  sense  it  is 
one  of  superiority.  She  treated  me  like  a  brick  under 
her  feet." 

For  a  minute  Corinna  was  silent.  The  smile  on  her 
lips  had  grown  tenderly  humorous;  and  there  was  a 
softness  in  her  eyes  which  made  him  sorry  that  he 
had  not  known  her  when  he  was  a  child.  "Do  you 
know  what  she  told  me  to-day?"  she  said.  "She  studies 
a  page  of  the  dictionary  every  morning,  and  she  tries 
to  remember  and  practise  all  day  the  new  words  that 
she  learns.  She  is  now  in  the  letter  M." 

A  peal  of  merriment  interrupted  her.  "That  ex 
plains  it!"  exclaimed  Stephen  with  unaffected  delight, 
"  manoeuvre — misinformation — multitude " 

"So  she  has  practised  on  you  too?" 

"Oh,  they  all  practise  on  me,"  he  retorted.  "It  is 
what  I  was  made  for." 


102  ONE  MAN  IN  HIS  TIME 

"Well,  as  long  as  it  is  only  words,  you  are  safe,  I 
suppose." 

He  denied  this  with  a  gesture.  "It  is  everything  you 
can  possibly  practise  with — from  puddings  to  pigeons." 

"My  poor  dear,  so  you  have  been  eating  Margaret's 
puddings.  Weren't  they  good  ones?" 

"  Oh,  perfection !  But  I  wasn't  thinking  of  Margaret." 

"  I  know  you  weren't.  For  your  mother's  sake  I  wish 
that  you  were." 

His  face  looked  suddenly  tired.  "Margaret  is  per 
fection,  I  know;  but  I  feel  sometimes  that  only  perfect 
people  can  endure  perfection." 

"Yes,  I  know."  Her  smile  had  faded  now.  "I 
admire  Margaret  tremendously,  but  I  feel  closer  to 
Patty." 

"Perhaps.  I  am  not  sure.  Somehow  I  have  been 
sure  of  nothing  since  I  came  out  of  the  trenches — least 
of  all  of  myself.  I  am  trying  to  find  out  now  what  I 
am  in  reality." 

As  he  rose  to  go  she  held  out  her  hand.  "I  think, — 
I  am  not  certain,  but  I  think,"  she  responded  gaily, 
"that  Patty's  dictionary  may  give  you  the  definition." 


CHAPTER  VII 

CORINNA   GOES   TO   WAR 

"YES,  I've  had  a  mean  life,"  thought  Corinna,  while 
she  stood  before  her  mirror  carefully  placing  a  patch 
on  her  cheek.  In  her  narrow  gown  of  black  velvet, 
with  the  silver  heels  of  her  slippers  shining  beneath 
the  transparent  draperies,  she  had  more  than  ever 
the  look  of  festival,  of  October  splendour.  If  her 
beauty  had  lost  in  roundness  and  softness,  it  had  gained 
immeasurably  in  authority,  in  that  air  of  having  been 
a  part  of  great  events,  of  historic  moments  which 
clung  to  her  like  a  legend.  Romance  and  mystery  were 
in  her  smile;  and  yet  what  had  life  held  for  her, 
she  mused  now,  except  the  frustrated  hope,  the  blighted 
fruit,  the  painted  lily?  Her  beauty  had  brought  her 
nothing  that  was  not  tawdry,  nothing  that  was  not  a 
gaudy  imitation  of  happiness.  She  had  given  herself 
for  what?  For  the  shadow  of  reality,  for  the  tinted 
shreds  of  a  damaged  illusion.  The  past,  in  spite  of  her 
many  triumphs,  had  been  worse  than  tragic ;  it  had  been 
comic — since  it  had  left  her  beggared.  Looking  back 
upon  it  now  she  saw  that  it  had  lacked  even  the  mourn 
ful  dignity  of  a  broken  heart. 

"I  have  had  a  mean  life;  but  it  isn't  over  yet,  and  I 
may  make  something  better  of  the  rest  of  it,"  she 
thought.  "At  least  I  have  fighting  blood  in  my  veins, 
and  I  will  never  give  up.  After  all,  even  if  my  life  has 
been  mean,  I  haven't  been — and  that  is  what  really 

103 


104  ONE  MAN  IN  HIS  TIME 

counts  in  the  end.  If  I  haven't  been  happy,  I  have 
tried  to  be  gallant — and  it  takes  courage  to  be  gallant 
with  an  aching  heart " 

As  she  fastened  the  long  string  of  pearls — one  of 
Kent  Page's  early  gifts — she  drew  back  from  the 
mirror,  with  the  light  of  philosophy,  if  not  of  happiness, 
overflowing  her  eyes.  With  her  grace  and  her  radi 
ance  she  stood  for  the  flower  of  the  Virginian  aristo 
cratic  tradition;  with  her  sincerity  and  her  fearlessness 
she  embodied  the  American  democratic  ideal.  Her 
forefathers  had  brought  representative  government 
to  the  New  World.  They  had  sat  in  the  first  General 
Assembly  ever  summoned  in  America;  and  through 
the  generations  they  had  fought  always  on  the  side  of 
liberty  tempered  by  discipline,  of  democracy  exalted 
by  patriotism.  They  had  stood  from  the  beginning 
for  dignity,  for  manners,  for  the  essence  of  social  culture 
which  places  art  at  the  service  of  life.  Always  they 
had  sought  to  preserve  the  finer  lessons  of  the  past; 
always  they  had  struggled  against  the  tyranny  of 
mediocrity,  the  increasing  cult  of  the  second  best.  From 
this  source,  from  the  inherited  instinct  for  selection, 
for  elimination,  from  the  inbred  tendency  toward  order 
and  suavity  of  living,  Corinna  had  derived  her  clear- 
eyed  acceptance  of  life,  her  nobility  of  mind,  her  loveli 
ness  and  grace  of  body.  She  had  been  prepared  and 
nurtured  for  beauty,  only  to  bloom  in  an  age  when 
beauty  had  been  bartered  for  usefulness.  Would  the 
delicate  discriminations  in  which  she  had  been  trained, 
the  lights  and  shadows  of  her  soul,  become  submerged 
in  the  modern  effort  to  reduce  all  distinctions  to  a 
level,  all  diversities  to  an  average? 

Turning  away  from  the  mirror,  Corinna  glanced  over 


CORINNA  GOES  TO  WAR  105 

the  charming  room,  with  the  wood  fire,  the  white  bear 
skin  rug,  the  ivory  bed  draped  in  blue  silk,  the  long 
windows  opening  on  the  garden  terrace  and  the  starlit 
darkness.  There  had  been  luxury  always.  Money 
she  had  had  in  abundance;  yet  there  had  been  no  hour 
in  the  last  twenty  years  when  she  would  not  have  ex 
changed  it  all — everything  that  money  could  bring  her — 
for  the  dinner  of  herbs  where  love  was.  She  had  pos 
sessed  everything  except  the  one  thing  she  had  wanted. 
She  had  served  the  tin  gods  in  temples  of  gold  and 
jade.  With  the  deep  instinct  for  perfection  in  her  blood, 
she  had  spent  her  life  in  an  endless  compromise  with 
the  inferior. 

"WTas  there  something  lacking  in  me?"  she  asked 
now  of  her  glowing  reflection.  "Was  there  some 
vital  spark  left  out  when  I  was  born?  And  to 
night?  Why  should  I  care  how  it  goes?  What  is 
Rose  Stribling  to  me  or  I  to  her?"  Why  should  she 
still  cherish  that  dull  resentment,  that  smothered 
sense  of  injury  in  her  heart?  Was  it  the  burden  of  her 
inheritance,  the  weakness  of  the  older  races,  that  she 
could  not  forget?  She  had  loved  a  man  who  was  un 
worthy;  she  had  loved  him  for  no  better  reason,  she 
understood  now,  than  a  superficial  charm,  a  romantic 
appeal.  The  fault  was  in  the  man,  she  knew,  yet  she 
had  forgiven  the  man  long  ago,  while  she  still  hated 
Rose  Stribling.  Perversity,  inconsistency — but  it  was 
her  nature,  and  she  could  not  overcome  it.  "If  she  had 
ever  loved  him,  I  might  have  forgiven  her,"  she  thought, 
"but  she  cared  for  him  as  little  as  she  cares  for  Gideon 
Vetch  to-day.  It  was  vanity  then,  and  it  is  vanity 
now.  You  cannot  hurt  her  heart — only  her  pride " 

Her  father  called  from  the  stairs;  and  with  a  last 


106  ONE  MAN  IN  HIS  TIME 

swift  glance  at  her  image,  she  caught  up  a  fan  of  ostrich 
plumes  and  a  wrap  of  peacock-blue  velvet.  She  had 
never  looked  more  brilliant  in  her  life,  not  even  on 
that  June  morning  twenty-five  years  ago,  when,  col 
oured  like  a  rose,  she  had  been  married  to  Kent  Page 
beneath  a  bower  of  roses.  She  had  lost  much  since 
then,  freshness,  innocence,  the  trusting  heart  and  the 
transparent  gaze,  but  she  had  lost  neither  charm  nor 
radiance. 

"So  we  are  invited  to  meet  Gideon  Vetch,"  remarked 
the  Judge  as  they  went  down  the  steps;  and  from  the 
whimsical  sound  of  his  voice,  she  knew  that  there  was 
a  smile  on  his  face.  The  house,  with  its  picturesque 
English  front  half  hidden  by  Virginia  creeper,  stood  at 
the  end  of  a  long  avenue,  in  the  centre  of  a  broad  lawn 
planted  in  fine  old  elms. 

"Yes,  there  must  be  some  reason  for  the  dinner,  but 
Sarah  Berkeley  did  not  tell  me." 

"Well,  I'll  be  glad  to  see  the  Governor  again,"  said 
the  Judge,  leaning  comfortably  back  as  the  car  rolled 
down  the  avenue  to  the  road,  "but  you  will  have  a 
dreary  evening,  I  fear,  unless  John  should  be  there." 

Corinna  smiled  in  the  darkness.  So  even  her  father, 
who  so  rarely  noticed  anything,  had  observed  her 
growing  interest  in  John  Benham.  After  all,  might 
this  be — this  sudden  revival  of  an  old  sentiment  in 
John's  heart —  "the  something  different,"  the 
ultimate  perfection  for  which  she  had  sought  all  her 
life?  "He  is  beginning  to  mean  more  to  me  than  any 
one  else,"  she  thought.  "If  only  I  had  never  heard  that 
old  gossip  about  Alice  Rokeby." 

Leaning  over,  she  patted  the  Judge's  hand.  "Don't 
have  me  on  your  mind,  Father  darling.  Go  ahead  and 


CORINNA  GOES  TO  WAR  107 

enjoy  the  Governor  as  much  as  you  can.  I  am  easy  to 
amuse,  you  know,  and  besides,  I  have  my  own  particular 
iron  in  the  fire  to-night." 

"You  are  never  without  expedients,  my  child,  but  I 
hope  this  one  has  no  bearing  on  Vetch." 

"Oh,  but  it  has.  Like  Esther,  the  queen,  I  have  put 
on  royal  apparel  for  an  ulterior  object.  Did  you 
notice  that  I  had  made  myself  as  terrible  as  an  army 
with  banners?" 

"I  thought  you  were  looking  unusually  lovely," 
replied  the  Judge  gracefully.  "But  you  are  always  so 
handsome  that  I  suspected  no  guile." 

Corinna  laughed  merrily.  "But  I  am  full  of  guile, 
dear  innocent !  I  go  forth  to  conquer." 

"Not  the  Governor,  I  hope?" 

"Oh,  no,  the  Governor  is  nothing — a  prize,  nothing 
more.  My  antagonist  is  Mrs.  Stribling." 

"Rose  Stribling?  "  The  Judge  was  mildly  astonished. 
"Why,  I  remember  her  as  a  little  girl  in  white  dresses." 

Corinna's  smile  became  scornful.  "Well,  she  isn't 
a  little  girl  any  longer,  and  she  oughtn't  to  be  in  white 
dresses." 

"Dear  me,  dear  me,"  rejoined  the  old  gentleman. 
"I  am  aware  that  you  have  a  dramatic  temperament, 
but  it  is  scarcely  possible  that  you  are  jealous  of  little 
Rose.  She  is  a  good  deal  younger  than  you,  if  I  am  not 
mistaken — but  my  memory  is  not  all  that  it  once  was." 

"She  is  twelve  years  younger  and  at  least  twenty 
years  more  malicious,"  retorted  Corinna  lightly. 
"But  those  twelve  years  aren't  as  long  as  they  were  in 
your  youth,  my  dear.  A  generation  ago  they  would 
have  spelt  an  end  of  my  conquests;  to-day  they  mean 
only  new  worlds  to  conquer." 


108  ONE  MAN  IN  HIS  TIME 

The  Judge  looked  perplexed.  "Am  I  to  infer  from 
this  that  you  have  designs  on  the  Governor?  And  may 
I  inquire  what  use  you  intend  to  make  of  him  after  you 
have  captured  him  from  the  enemy?" 

Corinna  shrugged  her  shoulders.  "I  hadn't  thought 
of  that.  Release  him,  probably.  But,  whatever  hap 
pens,  I  shall  have  saved  him  from  a  worse  fate.  For  that 
he  ought  to  thank  me,  and  he  will  if  he  is  reasonable." 

"Few  men  are  reasonable  in  captivity.  Do  you 
think,  by  the  way,  that  Mrs.  Stribling  would  like  an 
other  husband,  and  such  a  husband  as  our  friend  the 
demagogue?" 

"I  think  she  would  like  a  political  career,  and  of 
course  her  only  way  of  obtaining  a  career  of  any  kind 
is  to  marry  one.  Though  she  isn't  discerning,  she  has 
sense  enough  to  perceive  that.  They  tell  me  that  the 
Governor  is  starting  straight  for  the  Senate,  and  the 
wife  of  a  senator — of  any  senator — might  have  a  very 
good  time  in  Washington.  Besides,  there  is  always  the 
chance  of  course  that  the  winds  of  public  folly  may 
blow  him  into  the  White  House." 

"If  what  you  say  is  true  it  would  be  a  hard  fate  for  an 
honest  rogue,"  admitted  the  Judge.  "In  your  hands 
he  would  at  least  go  unharmed." 

"Oh,  unharmed  certainly.     Perhaps  helped." 

"Then  it  is  better  so.  But  the  thing  that  interests 
me  in  Vetch,  is  not  his  value  as  a  matrimonial  or  ro 
mantic  prize;  I  am  concerned  solely  and  simply  with  his 
opinions." 

"Well,  you  will  have  the  advantage  of  Mrs.  Stribling 
and  me,  for  we  shall  probably  find  the  cigars  an  im 
pediment  to  our  attack.  At  any  rate,  we  ought  to  have 
a  less  tedious  evening  than  you  expect." 


CORINNA  GOES  TO  WAR  109 

A  little  later,  when  she  entered  the  long  drawing- 
room  where  the  other  guests  were  already  assembled, 
Corinna  threw  an  inquiring  glance  in  the  direction  of 
Mrs.  Stribling.  Could  the  shallow  pink  and  white 
loveliness  of  that  other  woman,  the  historic  type  of 
the  World's  Desire,  bear  comparison  with  her  own 
starry  beauty?  It  was  a  petty  rivalry.  She  had  en 
tered  into  it  half  in  jest,  half  in  irritation,  yet  some 
sportsmanlike  instinct  prompted  her  to  play  the  game 
to  the  end.  She  would  prove  to  Rose  Stribling  that 
those  twelve  years  of  knowledge  and  suffering  had 
taught  her  not  to  surrender,  but  to  conquer. 

The  Berkeleys  were  what  was  still  known  in  their 
small  social  world  as  "quiet  people."  They  enter 
tained  little,  and  always  with  a  definite  object  which 
they  were  not  afraid  to  disclose.  Their  house,  an  in 
congruous  example  of  Mid-Victorian  architecture,  was 
still  suffused  for  them  with  the  sentimental  glamour  of 
their  wedding  day.  The  walls,  untouched  for  years, 
were  covered  with  embossed  paper  and  panelled  in  yel 
low  oak.  The  furniture,  protected  for  five  months  of 
the  year  by  covers  of  striped  linen,  was  stiffly  up 
holstered  in  pea-green  brocade;  and  the  pictures,  hang 
ing  very  high,  were  large  but  inferior  oil  paintings  in 
heavily  gilded  frames  that  represented  preposterous 
sheaves  of  wheat  or  garlands  of  roses.  Forty  years 
ago  the  house  reproduced  within  and  without  "the 
best  taste"  of  the  period,  and  was  as  bad  as  the  Berke 
leys  could  afford  to  make  it.  Since  then  fashions  had 
come  and  gone;  yet  the  hospitable  home  remained 
as  unchanged  as  the  politics  of  the  host  or  the  figure 
of  the  hostess.  The  Berkeleys  were  still  content 
to  be  "old-fashioned  people,"  with  the  fine  feeling 


110  ONE  MAN  IN  HIS  TIME 

and  the  indiscriminate  taste  of  an  era  which  had 
flowered  not  in  architecture  but  in  character,  when 
the  standard  of  living  was  high  and  the  style  in  furniture 
correspondingly  low.  To-night  the  ten  guests  (the 
Berkeleys  never  gave  large  dinners)  had  been  carefully 
chosen,  and  the  evening  would  probably  be  distin 
guished  by  good  talk  and  good  wine.  Though  they 
were  law-abiding  persons  to  the  core,  the  bitterness 
of  the  Eighteenth  Amendment  had  not  penetrated 
to  the  subterranean  darkness  where  Mr.  Berkeley's 
treasures  were  stored. 

Mrs.  Berkeley,  a  brisk,  compact  little  woman,  with 
a  pretty  florid  face  and  the  prominent  bosom  and 
tapering  waist  of  forty  years  ago,  turned  from  the 
Governor  as  Corinna  and  the  Judge  entered,  and  hur 
ried  forward  in  her  animated  way,  which  reminded 
one  of  the  manner  of  a  child  that  is  trying  to  make 
a  success  of  a  dolls'  party.  Beyond  Mr.  Berkeley, 
a  short,  neutral-tinted  man  without  emphasis  of  per 
sonality,  Corinna  saw  Mrs.  Stribling's  tall,  full  figure 
draped  in  a  gown  of  jade-coloured  velvet,  with  a  dar 
ingly  short  skirt  from  which  a  narrow,  sharply  pointed 
train  wound  like  a  serpent.  Her  heavy  hair,  of  an  un 
usual  shade  of  pale  gold,  had  the  smooth,  polished  look 
of  metal  which  had  been  moulded  in  waves  close  to  her 
head.  In  spite  of  her  active  life  and  her  disastrous 
affairs,  she  presented  an  unblemished  complexion,  as 
if  her  hard  rosy  surface  were  protected  by  some  in 
destructible  glaze.  Beside  her  opulent  attractions  the 
frail  prettiness  of  Alice  Rokeby,  who  was  dining  out  for 
the  first  time  this  winter,  looked  wistful  and  pathetic. 
Every  one,  except  Corinna,  who  had  been  abroad  at  the 
time,  knew  of  the  old  affair  between  Alice  Rokeby  and 


CORINNA  GOES  TO  WAR  111 

John  Benham;  and  every  one  who  knew  of  it  had 
thought  that  they  would  be  married  as  soon  as  she  got 
her  divorce.  But  time  had  dragged  on;  Corinna  had 
come  home  again;  and  Alice  Rokeby's  violet  eyes  had 
grown  deeper  and  more  wistful,  with  a  haunted  look  in 
them  as  if  they  were  denying  a  hungry  heart.  She  had 
never  dressed  well;  she  had  never,  as  Mrs.  Stribling 
remarked,  known  how  to  bring  out  her  best  points; 
and  to-night  she  had  been  even  less  successful  than 
usual.  Both  Corinna  and  Mrs.  Stribling  could  have 
told  her  that  she  should  have  avoided  violent  shades; 
and  yet  she  was  wearing  now  a  dress  of  vivid  purple 
which  made  her  pale  roseleaf  complexion  look  almost 
sallow.  Though  she  could  exercise  when  she  chose  a 
strangely  passive  attraction,  her  charm  usually  failed 
in  the  end  for  lack  of  intelligent  guidance. 

A  little  beyond  Alice  Rokeby,  where  her  eyes  could 
follow  his  gestures,  John  Benham  was  talking  in  his 
pleasant  subdued  voice  to  Patty  Vetch,  who  looked, 
in  her  frock  of  scarlet  tulle,  as  if  she  had  just  alighted 
from  the  chorus  of  a  musical  comedy.  Her  boyish 
dark  head  was  bent  over  a  fan  of  scarlet  feathers,  a 
toy  which  appeared  ridiculously  large  beside  her  small 
figure.  It  was  evident  that  the  girl  was  trying  to 
cover  an  uncomfortable  shyness  with  an  air  of  mocking 
effrontery;  and  a  moment  later,  when  Corinna  joined 
them,  Benham  glanced  up  with  a  flash  of  satirical 
amusement  in  his  eyes.  He  was  a  tall  thin  man  of 
middle  age,  with  a  striking  appearance  and  the  straight 
composed  features  of  an  early  American  portrait. 
His  dark  hair,  brushed  back  from  his  forehead,  had  the 
shining  gloss  that  comes  of  good  living  and  careful 
grooming,  and  this  gloss  was  reflected  in  his  smiling 


ONE  MAN  IN  HIS  TIME 

gray  eyes  and  in  the  healthy  red  of  his  well-cut  though 
not  quite  generous  mouth.  He  was  a  charming  guest, 
an  impressive  speaker,  a  sympathetic  listener;  yet  there 
had  always  seemed  to  Corinna  to  be  a  subtle  deficiency 
in  his  character.  It  was  only  of  late,  since  their  friend 
ship  had  turned  into  a  warmer  feeling,  that  she  had 
been  able  to  overcome  that  sense  of  something  wanting 
which  had  troubled  her  when  she  was  with  him.  She 
could  define  no  quality  that  was  absent;  but  the  im 
pression  he  still  gave  her  at  times  was  one  of  a  man 
tremendously  gifted  and  yet  curiously  inadequate. 
A  mental  thinness  perhaps?  An  emotional  dry  ness? 
Or  was  it  merely  that  here  also  she  felt,  rather  than 
perceived,  the  intrinsic  weakness  of  the  old  order? 

Beyond  Benham,  Gideon  Vetch,  rugged,  sanguine, 
and  wearing  the  wrong  tie  with  his  evening  clothes  as 
valiantly  as  he  had  worn  the  rumpled  brown  suit  in 
which  Stephen  had  last  seen  him,  was  talking  in  a 
loud  voice  to  Miss  Maria  Berkeley — one  of  those  serene 
single  women  arrayed  in  dove-colour  who  belong  as 
appropriately  as  crewel  work  or  antimacassars  to  an 
other  century.  If  Patty  was  shy  and  self-conscious, 
it  was  evident  that  her  state  of  mind  was  not  shared 
by  her  father.  He  was  interested  because  he  was  ex 
pressing  a  cherished  opinion,  and  he  was  talking  in  an 
emphatic  tone  because  he  hoped  that  he  might  be 
overheard.  When  Mrs.  Berkeley  drew  him  away  in 
order  to  introduce  him  to  Corinna,  he  resumed  his 
theme  immediately,  as  if  he  were  addressing  a  public 
meeting  and  had  scarcely  noticed  that  there  had  been 
a  change  in  his  audience.  "Miss  Berkeley  was  asking 
me  what  I  thought  of  the  effects  of  prohibition,"  he 
explained  presently  with  his  smile  of  unguarded  friend- 


CORINNA  GOES  TO  WAR  113 

liness.     How  was  it  possible  to  arrest  the  attention  of 
a  man  who  insisted  on  talking  of  prohibition? 

At  the  table  a  little  later  Corinna  asked  herself  the 
question  again,  while  she  made  light  conversation  for  the 
retired  general  who  had  taken  her  in — an  anecdotal, 
bewhiskered  presence,  with  the  husky  voice  and  the 
glazed  eyes  of  successful  pomposity.  Glancing  oc 
casionally  at  Vetch  who  sat  on  her  left,  she  found  that 
he  was  describing  to  Mrs.  Berkeley  the  best  protection 
against  forest  fires.  As  far  as  Corinna  was  concerned, 
she  felt  that  she  might  as  well  have  been  a  view  from 
the  window,  or  the  portrait  of  Mr.  Berkeley's  great  aunt 
that  hung  over  the  mantelpiece.  He  had  probably, 
she  reflected,  classified  her  lightly  as  "another  gray- 
haired  woman,"  and  passed  on  to  Rose  Stribling,  who 
bloomed  triumphantly  between  John  Benham  and 
Stephen  Culpeper.  Vetch  was  so  different  from  what 
Corinna  had  expected  to  find  him  that,  in  some  vague 
way,  she  felt  disappointed  and  absurdly  resentful.  Had 
her  imagination,  she  wondered,  prepared  her  to  meet 
one  of  the  picturesque  radicals  of  fiction?  Had  she 
looked  for  a  middle-aged  Felix  Holt;  and  was  this  why 
the  Governor's  prosaic  figure,  his  fresh-coloured,  un 
distinguished  face  and  his  vehement,  spectacular  ges 
tures,  dispelled  immediately  the  interest  she  had  felt 
in  the  meeting?  There  were  no  salient  points  in  his 
appearance,  nothing  that  she  could  detach  from  the 
rest  in  her  mental  image  of  him.  There  was  no  single 
characteristic  of  which  she  could  say:  "He  may  be 
common;  he  may  be  vulgar;  but  he  strikes  the  note  of 
greatness  here — and  here — and  here."  With  such 
a  man,  she  felt,  the  direct  and  obvious  appeal  of  Rose 
Stribling  would  be  victorious.  He  could  discern  pink 


114  ONE  MAN  IN  HIS  TIME 

and  white  and  blue  and  gold;  but  the  indeterminate 
shades,  the  subtleties  and  mysteries  of  charm  were 
enigmatical  to  him.  His  emotions  would  be  as  literal 
as  his  convictions  or  his  oratory.  Yet  there  must  be 
some  faculty  in  him  which  did  not  appear  on  the  sur 
face,  some  primitive  grasp  of  realities  in  his  under 
standing  of  men.  Why  should  the  influence  of  this 
sanguine,  loud-talking  demagogue,  she  asked  herself 
the  next  minute,  be  greater  than  the  influence  of  John 
Benham,  who  possessed  every  admirable  trait  except 
the  ability  to  make  people  follow  him?  What  was 
this  fundamental  difference  in  material  or  structure 
which  divided  them  so  completely?  When  she  had 
traced  it  to  its  source  would  she  discover  the  secret  of 
Vetch's  conquering  personality? 

Looking  away  from  the  General,  her  eyes  rested  for 
a  moment  on  Stephen  Culpeper,  who  was  listening 
with  his  reserved  impersonal  attention  to  the  amusing 
prattle  of  Patty  Vetch.  Obeying  an  imperative  rule, 
Mrs.  Berkeley  had  placed  her  youngest  guests  to 
gether;  and  yet,  if  Stephen  had  been  seventy-five  in 
stead  of  twenty-six,  he  could  scarcely  have  had  less 
in  common  with  the  Governor's  daughter.  With  her 
small  glossy  head,  and  her  scarlet  cheeks  and  lips  above 
the  fan  of  ostrich  feathers,  the  girl  reminded  Corinna 
of  a  spray  of  Christmas  holly,  all  dark  and  bright  and 
shining.  [Ever  since  Patty's  first  visit  to  the  print  shop 
Corinna  had  felt  a  genuine  liking  for  her.  The  girl 
had  something  deeper  than  charm,  reflected  the  older 
woman;  she  had  determination  and  endurance,  the  es 
sentials  of  character.  Of  course  she  was  crude,  she 
was  ignorant;  but  these  are  never  insurmountable 
obstacles  except  to  the  dull.  With  intelligence  and 


CORINNA  GOES  TO  WAR  115 

resourcefulness  all  things  are  possible — even  the  meta 
morphosis  of  a  circus  rider's  daughter  into  a  woman  of 
the  world. 

Becoming  suddenly  aware  that  Vetch  was  silent,  and 
that  Mrs.  Berkeley  had  turned  to  Judge  Page  on  her 
left,  Corinna  looked  for  the  first  time  into  the  frank 
blue  eyes  of  the  Governor.  Strange  eyes  they  were, 
she  thought,  the  one  striking  feature  in  a  face  that  was 
ordinary.  It  was  like  looking  down  into  the  very 
fountain  of  life — no,  of  humanity. 

"I  have  been  watching  your  daughter,"  she  began 
casually.  "She  is  very  pretty." 

"Yes,  she  is  pretty  enough" — his  tone  was  playful — 
"but  I  don't  like  this  craze  for  short  hair." 

She  looked  him  over  calmly.  Indirect  methods  would 
be  wasted  on  such  an  opponent.  "You  must  admire 
Mrs.  Stribling's." 

"I  do.  Don't  you? "  His  glance  roved  to  the  ample 
beauty  beside  John  Benham.  "It  looks  exactly  like 
a  rope  of  flax." 

"A  rope  suggests  a  hanging  to  me,"  she  rejoined 
grimly. 

He  laughed,  and  she  noticed  that  his  eyes  were  brim 
ming  over  with  humour.  Yes,  they  were  extraordinary 
eyes,  and  they  made  one  feel  sympathetic  and  friendly. 
The  man  had  a  quality,  she  couldn't  deny  it. 

"We  don't  hang  any  longer,"  he  replied. 

"Oh,  yes,  we  do  sometimes — without  the  law." 

The  blue  sparkles  in  his  eyes  contracted  to  points  of 
light.  She  had  at  last,  by  arresting  his  wandering  at 
tention,  succeeded  in  making  him  look  at  her. 

"I  wonder  what  you  mean,"  he  mused  aloud,  and 
added  frankly,  "I've  never  seen  you  before,  have  I?" 


116  ONE  MAN  IN  HIS  TIME 

"Have  I?"  she  mimicked  gaily.  "Wouldn't  you 
remember  me?  Or  are  all  gray-haired  women  alike 
to  you?" 

His  gaze  travelled  to  her  hair.  "I  didn't  mean  it 
that  way.  Of  course  I  should  have  remembered."  He 
spoiled  this  by  adding:  "I  never  forget  a  face,"  and 
continued  before  she  could  answer,  "I  don't  know 
whether  your  hair  is  gray  or  only  powdered  a  little;  but 
you  are  as  young  as — as  summer." 

"Or  as  your  political  party." 

"That's  good.  I  like  a  nimble  wit."  He  was 
plainly  amused.  "But  my  party  isn't  young,  you 
know.  It  is  as  old  as  Esau  and  Jacob.  Oh,  yes,  I've 
read  my  Bible.  I  was  brought  up  on  it." 

"That  is  why  your  speech  is  so  direct,"  she  said  when 
he  paused,  concluding  slowly  after  a  minute,  "and  so 


sincere." 


"You  feel  that  I  am  sincere?" 

She  met  his  eyes  gravely.     "Doesn't  every  one?" 

He  laughed  shortly.  "Ah,  you  know  better  than 
that!" 

"Well,  my  father  does.  He  says  that  it  is  your  sin 
cerity  that  makes  you  resemble  me." 

To  her  surprise  he  did  not  laugh  at  this.  "Do  I 
resemble  you?"  he  asked  simply. 

"Father  thinks  so.  He  says  that  people  won't  take 
us  seriously  because  we  tell  them  the  truth." 

An  impression  drifted  like  smoke  across  the  blue  of 
his  eyes.  Who  was  it,  she  wondered,  who  had  said 
that  his  eyes  were  gray?  "Don't  they  take  you  seri 
ously?"  he  asked. 

"As  a  woman,  yes.     As  a  human  being,  no." 

He  smiled.     "You  are  too  deep.     I  can't  follow.     I 


CORINNA  GOES  TO  WAR  117 

understand  only  the  plain  bright  ideas  of  the  half 
educated,  you  know." 

Her  brilliant  glance  shone  on  him  steadily.  "I 
sha'n't  try  to  explain.  What  one  doesn't  understand 
without  an  explanation  isn't  worth  knowing.  But 
somebody  must  take  you  seriously,  or  you  wouldn't 
be  where  you  are." 

"Do  you  know  where  I  am?"  he  demanded  impul 
sively. 

"I  know  that  you  are  Governor  of  Virginia." 

"Oh,  that!  I  thought  you  meant  something  more 
than  that,"  he  returned  with  a  note  of  disappointment 
in  his  voice. 

"What  could  I  mean  more  than  that?  Isn't  it  the 
first  step  upward  in  a  political  career?  " 

"Perhaps.  But  I  was  thinking  of  something  else. 
The  chief  thing  seems  to  me  to  be  to  work  a  way  out 
of  the  muddle.  Anybody  may  be  Governor  or  even 
President  if  he  tries  hard  enough — but  it  is  a  different 
matter  to  bring  some  kind  of  order  out  of  this  confu 
sion.  I've  got  an  idea  that  I've  been  hammering  at 
for  the  last  twenty  years.  Not  a  great  one,  perhaps, 
though  I  think  it  is;  and  I'd  like  to  get  a  chance  to  put 
it  into  practice  before  I  die.  I  want  to  wake  up  people 
and  tell  them  the  truth." 

Was  he,  for  all  his  matter-of-fact  appearance,  simply 
another  political  dreamer,  another  visionary  without 
a  definite  vision? 

"And  will  they  listen  when  you  tell  them?"  she 
asked. 

He  laughed.  "Who  knows  what  may  happen? 
When  I  was  a  kid  in  the  circus — you  have  heard,  of 
course,  that  I  spent  my  childhood  in  a  travelling  cir- 


118  ONE  MAN  IN  HIS  TIME 

cus" — how  simply  he  brought  this  out! — "the  fat 
woman,  we  called  her  'the  fat  lady'  in  those  days,  had  a 
favourite  proverb:  'When  the  skies  fall  we  shall  catch 
larks'.  I  reckon  when  the  skies  fall  the  people  will 
learn  wisdom." 

"But  you  have  caught  your  larks,  haven't  you?  " 

"No,  I  used  to  set  snares  by  the  hundred,  but  I  never 
caught  anything  better  than  a  sparrow." 

A  wistful  look  crossed  her  face,  and  for  an  instant 
the  youth  seemed  to  droop  and  fade  in  her  eyes.  "Isn't 
that  life? — sparrows  for  larks  always?" 

His  sanguine  spirit  rejected  this  as  she  had  known 
that  it  would.  "Life  is  all  right,"  he  replied,  "as  long 
as  there's  a  fighting  chance  left  to  you.  That  is  the 
only  thing  that  makes  it  worth  while,  fighting  to  win." 

She  gazed  meditatively  at  the  points  of  flame  on  the 
white  candles.  "I  suppose  it  would  be  so  with  you; 
for  you  fit  into  the  age.  You  are  a  part  of  this  variable 
uncertain  quantity  called  democracy,  which  some  of  us 
old-fashioned  folk  look  upon  as  a  boomerang." 

"Yes,  I  am  a  part  of  it,"  he  answered  slowly.  "I 
see  it  as  it  is,  I  think.  It  is  pure  buncombe,  of  course, 
to  say  that  it  hasn't  its  ugly  side;  but  I  believe,  if  I  have 
a  chance,  that  I  can  make  something  of  it."  He  paused 
a  moment  while  he  hesitated  over  the  silver  beside 
his  plate;  but  there  was  no  uncertainty  in  his  voice 
when  he  went  on  again,  after  deliberately  picking  up  the 
fork  he  preferred.  It  was  a  little  thing  to  remember 
a  man  by — the  merest  trifle — but  she  never  forgot  it. 
Only  a  big  man  could  be  as  natural  as  that,  she  reflected. 
"I  reasoned  it  all  out  before  I  went  into  politics,"  he 
was  saying.  "I  didn't  get  it  out  of  books  either — 
unless  you  count  the  Bible  and  'Robinson  Crusoe,' 


CORINNA  GOES  TO  WAR  119 

which  are  the  only  two  I  ever  read  as  a  boy.  But  the 
way  I  worked  it  out  at  last  was  that  democracy,  like 
life,  isn't  anything  that's  already  finished.  It  is  raw 
stuff.  We  are  making  it  every  minute  of  the  time; 
and  it  depends  on  us  whether  we  put  it  through  as  a 
straight  job  or  a  failure.  Democracy,  as  I  see  it,  isn't 
a  word  or  a  phrase  out  of  a  book,  or  a  formula,  or  any 
thing  that  has  frozen  into  a  fixed  shape  or  pattern. 
It  is  warm  and  fluid,  and  it  is  teeming  with  living 
forms.  It  is  as  much  alive  as  the  earth  or  air  or  water, 
and  it  can  be  used  to  develop  as  many  varying  energies. 
That  is  why  it  is  all  so  amazingly  interesting.  As 
long  as  you  don't  fall  away  from  that  thought  you  have 
your  feet  planted  on  solid  ground — you  can  face  things 
squarely " 

"You  preach  a  kind  of  political  pragmatism,"  she 
said  as  he  paused. 

"Pragmatism?  That's  a  muscular  word,  but  I  don't 
know  it.  I  wonder  if  Robinson  Crusoe  discovered  it." 

"If  Robinson  Crusoe  didn't  discover  it,  he  lived  it," 
she  rejoined  gaily;  and  then,  as  the  voice  of  Mrs.  Berke 
ley  was  heard  purring  softly  on  Vetch's  other  side, 
Corinna  turned  to  the  bewhiskered  General,  whose  only 
sense,  she  had  already  ascertained,  was  the  historic 
sense. 

While  she  leaned  back,  with  her  head  bent  in  the  di 
rection  of  his  husky  voice,  she  was  visited  by  a  piercing 
realization  of  the  emptiness,  the  artificiality  of  her  We. 
Futility — weariness — disenchantment— a  gray  lane  with 
out  a  turning  that  stretched  on  into  nothingness! 
Many  thoughts  were  blown  through  her  mind  like  leaves 
in  a  high  wind.  She  saw  herself  from  the  beginning — 
striving  without  rest — searching — searching — for  what? 


120  ONE  MAN  IN  HIS  TIME 

For  happiness — for  perfection — for  the  starry  flower 
that  she  had  never  found.  All  was  tawdry,  all  was 
tarnished,  all  was  unreal.  In  looking  back  she  saw 
that  the  festival  of  her  life  was  an  affair  of  tinselled 
splendour  and  glittering  dust.  Was  this  only  the  im 
pression  of  Vetch  on  her  mood?  Did  he  possess  some 
magic  gift  of  personality  which  caused  the  artificial, 
the  counterfeit,  to  wither  in  his  presence? 

Conversation  was  not  animated;  and  while  she  lis 
tened  with  "a  smile  to  dreary  anecdotes  of  the  War 
Between  the  States,  she  allowed  her  gaze  to  wander 
slowly  down  the  table  to  where  Alice  Rokeby  sat,  with 
her  large  soft  eyes,  so  vague  and  wistful,  asking  of  life, 
"Why  have  you  passed  me  by?"  Now  and  then  these 
eyes,  which  reminded  Corinna  of  the  eyes  in  a  dream, 
would  turn  timidly  to  John  Benham,  and  then  there 
would  steal  into  them  that  strange  look  of  hunger,  of 
desperation.  What  did  it  mean?  Corinna  wondered. 
Surely  there  was  no  truth  in  the  old  gossip  that  she 
had  heard  long  ago  and  forgotten? 

John  Benham  had  put  a  question  to  the  Gov 
ernor  across  the  table;  and  he  sat  now,  leaning  a  little 
forward,  while  he  waited  for  an  answer.  The  light 
from  the  tall  white  candles,  in  branched  candelabra  of 
the  Queen  Anne  pattern,  fell  directly  on  his  handsome 
austere  face,  so  full  of  delicate  reserves  and  fine  in 
tentions;  and  all  the  disturbing  questions  fled  from 
Corinna's  mind  while  she  looked  at  him.  Surely,  she 
repeated  to  herself,  with  a  triumphant  emphasis, 
surely  there  was  no  truth  in  that  old  ugly  gossip! 
The  backward  sweep  of  his  iron-gray  hair  accentuated 
the  height  of  his  forehead,  and  produced  at  first  sight 
an  impression  of  intellectual  superiority.  His  nose 


CORINNA  GOES  TO  WAR 

was  long  and  slightly  aquiline;  his  mouth  firm  and 
clear-cut,  with  thin  lips  that  closed  tightly;  his  chin 
jutted  a  little  forward,  giving  a  hatchet-like  severity  to 
his  profile.  It  was  the  face  of  a  fair  fighter,  of  a  man 
who  could  be  trusted  absolutely  beyond  personal  limi 
tations,  of  a  man  who  would  always  keep  the  vision  of 
the  end  through  any  enterprise,  who  would  always  put 
the  curb  of  expediency  on  emotional  impulses,  who 
would  invariably  judge  a  theory  not  by  its  underlying 
principle,  but  by  its  practical  application.  A  charming 
face,  too,  complex  and  imaginative,  a  face  which  made 
the  rugged  and  open  countenance  of  the  Governor  ap 
pear  primitive  and  undeveloped.  Corinna  admired 
Benham;  she  respected  him;  she  liked — was  it  even 
possible,  she  asked  herself,  that  she  loved  him?  Yet 
here  again  she  was  conscious  of  that  baffled  feeling  of 
inadequacy,  of  something  wanting,  as  if  an  essential 
faculty  of  soul  had  been  either  left  out  by  Nature,  or 
refined  away  by  the  subtle  impersonal  processes  of  his 
mind. 

Clearly  there  had  been  an  error  of  judgment  in 
placing  him  beside  Mrs.  Stribling.  His  taste  was  too 
fastidious  to  respond  to  her  palpable  allurements. 
She  would  have  had  a  better  chance  with  Vetch,  for 
the  flippant  pleasantry  with  which  Benham  responded 
to  the  beaming  enchantress  was  clothed  in  the  very 
tone  and  look  he  had  used  with  Patty  Vetch  in  the 
drawing-room.  Yes,  it  was  futile  to  stray  too  far  from 
one's  type.  Rose  Stribling  had  failed  to  interest  Ben- 
ham,  mused  Corinna,  for  the  same  reason  that  she 
herself  had  been  unable  to  arouse  the  admiration  of 
Gideon  Vetch.  The  lesson  it  taught,  she  repeated 
cynically,  was  simply  that  it  was  futile  to  stray  too 


ONE  MAN  IN  HIS  TIME 

far  from  one's  type.  Vetch  had  talked  to  her  as  he 
might  have  talked  to  her  father  or  to  the  husky  war 
rior  on  her  right;  but  he  had  never  once  looked  at  her. 
His  attention  would  be  arrested  by  large,  sudden,  bright 
things  like  the  rosy  curve  of  Mrs.  Stribling's  shoulders 
or  the  shining  ropes  of  her  hair. 

"How  absurd  it  was  to  imagine  that  I  could  compare 
with  that!"  thought  Corinna  with  amusement.  Her 
sense  of  defeat  was  humorous  rather  than  resentful; 
yet  she  realized  that  it  contained  a  disagreeable  sting. 
Was  her  long  day  over  at  last?  Had  the  sun  set  on 
her  conquests?  Had  her  adventurous  return  to  power 
been  merely  a  prelude  to  the  ultimate  Waterloo? 
Lifting  her  eyes  suddenly  from  her  plate  she  met  the 
deep  meditative  gaze  of  John  Benham  across  the  mari 
golds  on  the  table;  and  the  faint  flush  that  kindled  her 
face  made  her  eyes  glow  like  embers.  Had  he  read 
the  thought  in  her  mind?  Was  the  tenderness  in  his 
glance  only  an  ironical  comment  on  the  ignominious 
end  of  her  Hundred  Days? 

She  glanced  away  quickly,  and  as  she  did  so  she 
looked  straight  into  the  eyes  of  Alice  Rokeby — those 
eyes  that  asked  perpetually  of  life,  "Why  have  you 
passed  me  by?" 


CHAPTER  VIII 

THE  WORLD  AND  PATTY 

ON  THE  way  home,  leaning  against  her  father  who  had 
not  spoken  since  the  car  started,  Patty  shut  her  eyes 
and  went  over,  one  by  one,  the  incidents  of  the  dinner. 
What  had  she  done  that  was  right?  What  had  she 
done  that  was  wrong?  Was  her  dress  just  what  it 
ought  to  have  been?  Had  she  talked  to  Stephen 
Culpeper  about  the  things  people  are  supposed  to 
discuss  at  a  dinner?  Had  he  seen  how  embarrassed 
she  was  beneath  her  pretence  of  gaiety?  Would  she 
be  better  looking  if  she  were  to  let  her  hair  grow 
long  again?  What  had  Mrs.  Page,  who  looked  as  if 
she  had  stepped  down  from  one  of  those  old  prints, 
thought  of  her? 

Beneath  the  hard  brightness  of  her  manner  there  was 
a  passionate  groping  toward  some  dimly  seen  but  in 
tensely  felt  ideal.  She  longed  to  learn  if  she  could  only 
learn  without  confessing  her  ignorance.  Her  pride  was 
the  obstinate,  unreasonable  pride  of  a  child. 

"If  I  could  only  find  out  things  without  asking!" 
The  image  of  Stephen  rose  in  her  mind,  which  worked 
by  flashes  of  insight  rather  than  orderly  processes. 
She  saw  his  earnest  young  face,  with  the  sleek  dark 
hair,  which  swept  in  a  point  back  from  his  forehead,  his 
sombre  smoke-coloured  eyes,  and  the  firm,  slightly 
priggish  line  of  his  mouth.  He  seemed  miles  away  from 
her,  separated  by  some  imponderable  yet  impassable 

123 

v 


124  ONE  MAN  IN  HIS  TIME 

barrier.  The  first  time  her  gaze  had  rested  on  him  at 
the  charity  ball  she  had  thought  impetuously,  "Any 
girl  could  fall  in  love  with  a  man  like  that!"  and  she 
had  carelessly  asked  his  name  of  the  assiduous  Ger- 
shom,  who  appeared  to  her  to  exist  in  innumerable 
reflections  of  himself.  The  next  day  when  she  had  seen 
Stephen  approaching  her  in  the  Square,  she  had  obeyed 
the  same  erratic  impulse,  half  in  jest  and  half  from  the 
gambler's  instinct  to  grasp  at  reluctant  opportunity. 
After  all,  had  not  experience  taught  her  that  one  must 
venture  in  order  to  win,  that  nothing  came  to  those 
who  dared  not  stake  the  whole  of  life  on  the  next  turn 
of  fortune?  She  had  been  startled  out  of  her  composure 
by  the  sight  of  Stephen  at  the  dinner;  and  yet  she  had 
not  been  conscious  of  any  particular  wish  to  see  him 
again,  or  to  sit  at  his  side  through  two  hours  of  em 
barrassment  and  uncertainty.  Now,  on  the  way  home, 
she  was  suffering  acutely  from  the  burden  of  failure, 
from  the  smarting  realization  of  her  own  ignorance  and 
awkwardness.  Her  one  bitter-sweet  consolation  was 
the  knowledge  that  she  had  been  "a  good  loser,"  that 
she  had  carried  off  her  humiliation  with  a  scornful  pride 
which  must  have  blighted  like  frost  any  tenderly  bud 
ding  shoots  of  compassion.  "I'll  show  them  that  they 
mustn't  pity  me!"  she  thought,  while  her  eyes  blazed 
in  the  darkness.  "I'll  prove  to  them  that  I  think 
myself  every  bit  as  good  as  they  are!"  She  knew  that 
her  manner  had  been  ungracious ;  but  she  knew  also  that 
something  stronger  than  her  will,  some  instinct  which 
was  rooted  deep  in  the  secret  places  of  her  nature,  had 
made  it  impossible  for  her  to  appear  otherwise.  Im 
passioned,  undisciplined,  and  capable  of  fierce  imagi 
native  loyalties  and  aversions,  the  strongest  force  in 


THE  WORLD  AND  PATTY  125 

her  character  was  this  bitter  ineradicable  pride.  To 
accept  no  benefits  that  she  could  not  return;  to  fall 
under  no  obligation  that  would  involve  a  feeling  of 
gratitude;  to  pay  the  piper  to  the  utmost  penny  when 
ever  she  called  the  tune — these  were  the  only  laws 
that  she  acknowledged.  Though  she  longed  ardently 
for  the  admiration  of  Stephen  Culpeper,  she  would 
have  died  rather  than  relinquish  the  elfin  mockery  of 
her  challenge. 

"Well,  did  you  enjoy  it,  Patty?"  Her  father  turned 
to  her  with  sudden  tenderness,  though  the  frown  pro 
duced  by  some  engrossing  train  of  thought  still  gathered 
his  heavy  brows. 

She  caught  his  hand  while  her  small  face  relaxed 
from  its  expression  of  rigid  disdain.  "I  had  simply 
the  time  of  my  life,"  she  responded  with  convincing 
animation.  "That  Mrs.  Page  is  the  most  beautiful 
woman  I  ever  saw — but  she  can't  be  very  young.  I 
wonder  what  she  was  like  when  she  was  my  age?" 

Vetch  laughed.  "Not  like  a  short-haired  imp  with 
green  eyes  anyway,"  he  replied.  "Mrs.  Stribling 
looked  very  handsome,  too,  I  thought." 

"Oh,  she's  handsome  enough,"  admitted  Patty. 
"But  she  hasn't  any  sense.  I  listened  to  what  she  was 
saying,  and  she  just  asked  questions  all  the  time. 
Mrs.  Page  is  different.  You  can  tell  that  she  has  been 
all  over  the  world.  She  knows  things." 

"Yes,  I  suppose  she  does,"  said  Vetch.  "WTiat  did 
you  think  of  Benham?" 

"He  is  good  looking,"  answered  the  girl  deliberately, 
"but  I  don't  like  him.  He  is  making  fun  of  you." 

"Is  he?"  returned  Vetch  curiously.  "Now,  I  won 
der  if  you're  right  about  that.  At  any  rate  he  asked  me 


126  ONE  MAN  IN  HIS  TIME 

a  question  to-night  that  I  should  like  a  chance  to  answer 
on  the  platform." 

"He  was  in  the  army,"  said  Patty,  "and  every  one 
says  he  was  a  hero.  The  women  were  talking  about 
him  while  you  were  smoking.  They  all  admire  him  so. 
It  seems  that  he  went  into  an  officer's  training  camp  as 
soon  as  war  was  declared  though  he  was  over  age;  and 
then  just  recently  he  has  done  something  that  every 
one  thinks  splendid.  He  refused  a  tremendous  fee  from 
some  corporation — what  did  they  mean  by  a  corpora 
tion? — because  he  thought  the  money  was  made  dishon 
estly.  Mrs.  Page  says  he  has  as  many  public  virtues  as 
a  civic  forum.  What  is  a  forum,  Father?" 

Vetch  laughed  without  replying  directly  to  her  ques 
tion.  "Did  she  say  that?"  he  responded.  "And 
what  did  she  mean  by  it,  I  wonder?" 

"It  sounded  clever,"  said  Patty,  "but  I  didn't 
understand.  What  is  a  forum,  Father?" 

Vetch  thought  a  moment.  "Mrs.  Page  would  prob 
ably  tell  you,"  he  replied,  "that  it  is  the  temple  of 
the  improbable." 

Patty  stirred  impatiently.  "Now  you  are  trying 
to  talk  like  Mrs.  Page,"  she  rejoined.  "I  wish  I  knew 
what  things  meant." 

"When  you  find  out  what  they  mean,  Patty,  they 
will  cease  to  interest  you." 

"Well,  I'd  rather  be  less  interested  and  more  com 
fortable,"  said  Patty,  with  a  trace  of  exasperation  in 
her  voice.  "  To-night,  for  instance,  I  hadn't  the  faintest 
idea  how  to  behave.  Look  at  all  those  books  I've  read, 
too,  when  I  might  just  as  well  have  been  enjoying 
myself.  I've  found  out  to-night,  Father,  that  books 
can't  tell  you  everything — not  even  books  on  etiquette." 


THE  WORLD  AND  PATTY  127 

Vetch  broke  into  a  laugh  of  boisterous  amusement. 
"So  that  is  how  you  have  been  spending  your  time!" 
he  exclaimed.  "You'd  better  trust  to  your  common 
sense,  my  dear;  it  will  carry  you  straighter." 

"Oh,  no,  it  doesn't.  It  doesn't  carry  me  anywhere 
except  into  trouble.  When  I  think  of  all  the  pains 
I've  taken  to  learn  how  to  talk  like  the  dictionary! 
Why,  nobody  talks  like  the  dictionary  any  longer! 
They  all  talk  slang,  every  one  of  them — only  they 
don't  talk  the  kind  that  Julius  Gershom  and  all  these 
politicians  do.  If  you  could  have  seen  Mrs.  Berkeley's 
face  when  I  told  her  I'd  had  a  'grand'  time  to-night — 
she  looked  exactly  like  a  frozen  fish — though  just  the 
moment  before  Mr.  Culpeper  had  called  somebody  a 
'rotter'.  I  heard  him." 

The  Governor  dismissed  it  all  with  a  wave  of  his 
hand.  "Trifles,  trifles,"  was  his  only  comment. 

The  car  had  entered  the  Square,  and  in  a  moment 
it  was  passing  the  Washington  statue  and  the  Capitol 
building.  Until  it  stopped  before  the  steps  of  the 
mansion,  Patty  did  not  reply;  then  springing  up  with  a 
flutter  of  her  scarlet  skirt,  she  exclaimed  airily,  "But 
I  am  a  trifle,  too,  Father!" 

As  he  held  out  his  hand  from  the  ground,  Vetch 
looked  at  her  with  an  expression  in  which  pride 
and  pity  were  strangely  mingled.  "Then  you  are 
one  of  the  trifles  that  make  life  worth  living,"  he 
replied. 

He  had  taken  out  his  latch-key  and  was  about  to 
insert  it  in  the  lock,  when  the  door  opened  and  Ger 
shom  stood  before  them. 

"I  waited  for  you,"  he  said  to  Vetch.  "There's  a 
matter  I  must  see  you  about  to-night."  His  ruddy  face 


128  ONE  MAN  IN  HIS  TIME 

was  tinged  with  purple,  and  he  had  the  look  of  a  man 
who  has  just  been  aroused  from  a  nap. 

"Well,  I'm  sleepy,  and  I'm  going  to  bed,"  retorted 
Patty  in  reply  to  his  glance  rather  than  his  words,  and 
her  tone  was  bitterly  hostile. 

"Then  I'll  see  you  to-morrow."  He  had  followed  her 
into  the  wide  hall  while  the  Governor  closed  the  door 
and  stopped  to  take  off  his  overcoat.  "Did  you  have 
a  good  time?" 

She  responded  with  a  disdainful  movement  of  her 
shoulders  which  might  have  been  a  shrug  if  she  had  had 
French  instead  of  Irish  blood  in  her  veins.  In  her 
evening  cloak  of  green  velvet  trimmed  with  gray  fox 
she  had  the  look  of  a  small  wild  creature  of  the  forest. 
Beneath  her  thick  eyelashes  her  eyes  shone  through  a 
greenish  mist;  and  at  the  moment  there  was  something 
frightened  and  furtive  in  their  brightness. 

"Of  course,"  she  replied  defiantly,  moving  away  from 
him  in  the  direction  of  the  staircase.  "I  had  a  wonder 
ful  time — perfectly  wonderful.  The  people  were  all  so 
interesting."  Her  pronunciation  was  as  deliberately 
correct  as  if  she  were  reading  from  a  dictionary.  It 
was  the  air  of  superiority  that  she  always  assumed  with 
Gershom,  for  in  no  other  way,  she  had  learned  from 
experience,  could  she  irritate  him  so  intensely. 

His  jovial  manner  gave  place  to  a  crestfallen  look. 
"Who  was  there?  I  reckon  I  know  the  names  any 
way." 

He  affected  a  true  republican  scorn  of  appearances; 
and  standing  there,  in  his  dishevelled  business  clothes 
beside  Patty's  ethereal  youth,  he  looked  as  hopelessly 
battered  by  reality  as  a  political  theory,  or  as  old  Gen 
eral  Powhatan  Plummer  of  aristocratic  descent. 


THE  WORLD  AND  PATTY  129 

Patty  had  often  wondered  what  it  was  about  the 
man  that  aroused  in  her  so  unconquerable  an  aversion. 
He  was  not  ugly  compared  to  many  of  the  men  her 
father  had  brought  to  the  house;  and  ten  years  ago, 
when  she  first  met  him  in  the  little  country  town  where 
they  were  living,  his  curling  black  hair  and  sharp  black 
eyes  had  seemed  to  her  rather  attractive  than  other 
wise.  If  he  had  been  merely  untidy  and  unashamed  in 
dress,  she  might  have  tolerated  the  failing  as  the  out 
ward  sign  of  a  distinguished  social  philosophy;  but, 
even  in  those  early  days,  his  Jeffersonian  simplicity 
had  yielded  to  an  outbreak  of  vanity.  Though  his 
clothes  were  unbrushed  and  his  boots  were  unpolished, 
he  wore  a  sparkling  pin  in  his  tie  and  several  sparkling 
rings  on  his  fingers.  There  was  something  else,  too, 
some  easy  tone  of  patronage,  some  familiar  inflexion, 
which  as  a  child  she  had  hated.  Now,  after  the  evening 
with  Stephen  Culpeper,  she  shrank  from  him  with  a 
disgust  which  was  made  all  the  keener  by  contrast. 
A  pitiless  light  had  fallen  over  Gershom  while  he  stood 
there  beside  her,  as  if  his  bad  taste  and  his  pathetic 
ambition  to  appear  something  that  he  was  not,  had 
become  exaggerated  into  positive  vices.  She  was  too 
young  to  perceive  the  essential  pathos  of  all  wasted 
effort,  of  all  misdirected  attempts  to  overcome  the 
disadvantages  of  ignorance;  and  while  she  looked  at 
him  now,  she  saw  only  the  vulgarity.  Like  all  those 
who  have  suffered  from  insufficient  opportunities  and 
wounded  pride,  Patty  Vetch  was  without  mercy  for 
the  very  weaknesses  that  she  had  risen  above.  After 
the  evening  at  the  Berkeley s*  she  felt  that  she  should  be 
less  ashamed  of  a  drunkard  than  of  a  man  who  wore 
diamonds  because  he  thought  that  it  was  the  correct 


130  ONE  MAN  IN  HIS  TIME 

thing  to  do.  She  remembered  suddenly  that  on  her 
fourteenth  birthday  she  had  bought  a  pair  of  paste  ear 
rings  with  ten  dollars  her  father  had  given  her;  and  for 
the  sting  of  this  reminder  she  knew  that  she  should  never 
forgive  Gershom.  Oh,  she  had  no  patience  with  a  man 
who  couldn't  find  out  things  and  learn  without  asking 
questions!  Hadn't  she  tried  and  tried,  and  made  mis 
takes  and  tried  again,  and  still  gone  on  trying  by  hook 
or  by  crook,  as  her  father  would  say,  to  find  out  the 
thousand  and  one  things  she  oughtn't  to  do?  If  she, 
even  as  a  child,  had  struggled  so  hard  to  improve  her 
self  and  change  in  the  right  way,  not  the  wrong  way — 
then  why  shouldn't  he?  Her  father,  of  course,  wasn't 
polished,  but  he  was  as  unlike  Gershom  as  if  they  had 
been  born  as  far  apart  as  the  poles.  Even  to  her  un 
trained  eyes  it  was  evident  that  Vetch  possessed  the 
authority  of  personality — a  sanction  that  was  not  so 
cial  but  moral.  Some  inherent  dislike  for  anything 
that  was  not  solid,  that  was  not  genuine,  had  served 
Vetch  as  a  kind  of  aesthetic  discrimination. 

"I  know  Benham,"  Gershom  was  saying  eagerly. 
"I've  worked  with  him.  Smart  chap,  don't  you  think? 
Ever  heard  him  speak?" 

"No,  I  hate  speeches." 

"Did  he  and  the  Governor  have  any  words?" 

"Of  course  they  didn't — not  at  dinner,"  she  replied 
with  a  crushing  manner.  "Father  is  waiting  for  you." 

"Then  you'll  see  me  to-morrow?  I've  got  a  lot  I 
want  to  say  to  you.  And  I'll  tell  you  this  right  now, 
Patty,  my  dear,  you  may  run  round  with  these  high- 
faluting  chaps  like  Culpeper  as  much  as  you  please; 
but  how  many  dinner  parties  do  you  think  you'd  be 
invited  to  if  I  hadn't  put  the  old  man  where  he  is?55 


THE  WORLD  AND  PATTY  131 

At  this  she  turned  on  him  furiously,  her  eyes  blazing 
through  their  greenish  mist.  "I  don't  owe  you  any 
thing,  and  you  know  it!"  she  retorted  defiantly.  Then 
before  he  could  detain  her  she  broke  away  from  him 
and  ran  up  the  stairs.  How  dared  he  pretend  that  he 
had  placed  her  under  an  obligation!  As  if  it  made 
any  difference  to  her  whether  her  father  were  Gover 
nor  or  not! 

As  she  fled  upward  she  heard  Gershom  follow  Vetch 
into  the  library,  and  she  knew  that  they  would  sit 
talking  there  until  long  after  midnight.  These  dis 
cussions  had  become  frequent  of  late;  and  she  surmised 
vaguely,  though  Vetch  never  mentioned  Gershom's 
name  to  her,  that  the  two  men  were  no  longer  upon  the 
friendly  terms  of  the  old  days.  Ever  since  Vetch's 
election,  it  had  seemed  to  her  that  the  pack  of  hungry 
politicians  had  closed  in  about  him;  and  only  the  day 
before,  when  she  had  gone  over  to  the  Governor's  office 
in  the  Capitol  building,  she  had  run  away  from  what 
she  merrily  described  as  "the  famished  wolves"  wait 
ing  outside  his  door.  It  was  clear  even  to  her  that  the 
political  leaders  who  had  supported  Vetch  were  begin 
ning  already  to  distrust  him.  They  had  sought,  she 
realized,  to  use  his  popularity,  his  eloquence,  his  ear 
nestness,  for  their  own  ends;  and  they  were  making  the 
historic  discovery  that  the  man  who  possesses  these 
affirmative  qualities  is  seldom  without  the  will  to  pre 
serve  them.  In  their  superficial  ploughing  of  the  soil, 
Vetch's  adherents  had  at  last  struck  against  the  rock 
of  resistance.  A  man  of  ambition,  or  a  man  of  prej 
udice,  they  might  have  controlled;  but,  as  Patty  had 
learned  long  ago,  Vetch  was  that  most  difficult  of  po 
litical  problems — the  man  of  an  idea. 


132  ONE  MAN  IN  HIS  TIME 

Sitting  before  her  dressing-table  she  glanced  over  the 
room,  which  was  hung  with  the  gaily  decorated  chintz 
she  had  bought  after  months  of  secret  longing  for  roses 
and  hollyhocks  in  her  bedroom.  Now  she  felt  that 
it  looked  cheap  and  flimsy  because  she  had  sacrificed 
material  to  colour.  She  wanted  something  different 
to-night;  she  wanted  something  better.  Turning  to  the 
mirror  she  gazed  back  at  her  vivid  face,  with  the  large 
deep  eyes,  so  full  of  poignant  expectancy,  and  the 
soft  dimpled  chin.  From  her  expression  she  might 
have  been  dreaming  of  happiness;  but  the  thought  in 
her  mind  was  simply,  "The  powder  I  use  is  too  white. 
Those  women  to-night  used  powder  that  did  not  show. 
I  must  get  some  to-morrow."  She  was  pretty, — even 
Stephen  thought  she  was  pretty.  She  could  see  it  in 
his  eyes  when  he  looked  at  her;  but  her  prettiness  was 
merely  the  bloom  of  youth,  nothing  more.  It  was  not 
that  changeless  beauty  of  structure — that  beauty,  as 
she  recognized,  of  the  very  bone,  which  made  Mrs. 
Page  perennially  lovely.  "In  ten,  fifteen,  at  the  most 
in  twenty  years,  I  shall  have  lost  it  all,"  she  thought. 
"Then  I  shall  get  fat  and  common  looking;  and  every 
thing  will  be  over  for  me  because  a  little  youthful 
colour  and  sparkle  was  all  that  I  had.  I  have  nothing 
to  hold  on  to — nothing  that  will  last.  I  don't  know 
anything — and  yet  how  could  I  be  expected  to  know 
anything  after  the  dull  life  I've  had?  In  my  whole 
life  I've  never  known  a  woman  that  could  help  me. 
I've  had  to  find  out  everything  for  myself " 

With  her  gaze  still  on  the  mirror,  she  laid  the  brush 
on  its  back  of  pink  celluloid — how  much  she  had  ad 
mired  it  when  she  bought  it ! — and  leaned  forward  with 
her  hands  clasped  on  the  cover  of  the  dressing-table. 


THE  WORLD  AND  PATTY  133 

Her  hair  still  flying  out  from  the  strokes  of  the  brush 
surrounded  her  small  eager  face  like  a  cloud.  From 
the  open  neck  of  her  kimono,  embroidered  in  a  pattern 
of  cranes  and  wistaria,  the  thin  girlish  lines  of  her 
throat  rose  with  an  appealing  fragility,  Like  the  stem 
of  some  delicate  flower. 

"I  wonder  if  Mother  could  have  helped  me  if  she 
had  lived?"  she  asked  presently  of  her  reflection.  "I 
wonder  if  she  was  different  from  all  the  other  women 
I've  known?"  Through  her  mind  there  passed  swiftly 
a  hundred  memories  of  her  childhood.  First  there  came 
the  one  vivid  recollection  of  her  mother,  a  flashing, 
graceful  figure,  as  light  as  thistle-down,  in  a  skirt  of 
spangled  tulle  that  stood  out  from  her  knees.  The 
face  Patty  could  not  remember,  but  the  spangles  were 
indelibly  impressed  on  her  mind,  the  spangles  and  a 
short  silver  wand,  with  a  star  on  the  end  of  it,  which 
that  fairy  -like  figure  had  held  over  her  cradle.  Of  her 
mother  this  was  all  she  had  left,  just  this  one  unfor 
gettable  picture,  and  then  a  long  terrible  night  when 
she  had  not  seen  her,  but  had  heard  her  sobbing,  sobbing, 
sobbing,  somewhere  in  the  darkness.  The  next  day, 
when  she  cried  for  her,  they  had  said  that  she  was 
gone,  and  the  child  had  never  seen  her  again.  In  the 
place  of  her  pretty  mother  there  had  been  a  big,  rugged 
man,  whom  she  had  never  seen  before,  and  when  she 
cried  this  man  had  taken  her  in  his  arms,  and  tried  to 
quiet  her.  Afterward,  when  she  grew  bigger  and  asked 
questions,  one  of  the  neighbours  had  told  her  that  her 
mother  had  lost  her  mind  from  a  fall  in  the  circus,  that 
they  had  taken  her  away  to  an  asylum,  and  that  now 
she  was  dead. 

"And  wherever  she  is,  she  ought  to  go  down  on  her 


134  ONE  MAN  IN  HIS  TIME 

knees  and  thank  Gideon  Vetch  for  the  way  he's  looked 
after  you,"  said  the  woman. 

"But  didn't  he  look  after  her  too?"  asked  the 
child. 

At  this  the  woman  laughed  shrilly,  lifting  the  soak 
ing  clothes  with  her  capable  red  hands,  and  then  plung 
ing  them  down  into  the  soapsuds.  "  Well,  I  reckon  that's 
more  than  the  Lord  Almighty  would  expect  of  him!" 
she  replied  emphatically  but  ambiguously. 

"I  wonder  why  Father  never  took  me  to  see  her. 
I'm  sure  I'd  have  remembered  it." 

The  woman  looked  at  her  darkly.  "There  are  some 
places  that  children  don't  go  to." 

"How  long  ago  did  she  die?" 

Patty  waited  patiently  for  an  answer;  but  when  at 
last  the  neighbour  raised  her  head  again  from  the  tub, 
it  appeared  that  her  reticence  had  extended  from  her 
speech  to  her  expression  which  looked  as  if  it  had  closed 
over  something.  "You'll  have  to  ask  your  father 
that,"  she  returned  in  a  phrase  as  cryptic  as  the  preced 
ing  one.  "I  ain't  here  to  tell  you  things." 

After  this  the  child  set  her  lips  firmly  together,  and 
asked  no  more  questions.  Her  father  had  become  not 
one  parent,  but  both  to  her;  and  it  seemed  that  where- 
ever  she  looked  he  was  always  there,  overshadowing 
like  a  mountain  everything  else  on  her  horizon.  In 
the  beginning  they  had  been  very  poor;  but  he  had 
never  let  her  suffer  for  things,  although  for  weeks  at  a 
time  she  knew  that  he  had  gone  without  his  tobacco 
in  order  to  buy  her  toys.  Until  she  went  to  the  little 
village  school,  she  had  always  had  an  old  woman  to 
look  after  her,  and  later  on,  when  their  circumstances 
appeared  miraculously  to  improve,  he  employed  the 


THE  WORLD  AND  PATTY  135 

slim,  gray,  uninteresting  spinster  who  slept  now  a  few 
doors  away  from  her.  There  were  hours  when  it 
seemed  to  her  that  she  had  never  learned  the  meaning 
of  tediousness  until  the  plain  but  hopeful  Miss  Spencer 
came  to  live  with  her. 

Rising  from  her  chair,  she  moved  away  from  the 
mirror,  and  wandered  restlessly  to  the  pile  of  fashion 
magazines  and  festively  decorated  "books  on  eti 
quette"  that  littered  the  table  beside  the  chintz- 
covered  couch.  "They  don't  know  everything!" 
she  thought  contemptuously.  How  hard  she  had  tried 
to  learn,  and  yet  how  confused,  how  hopeless,  it  all 
seemed  to  her  to-night!  All  the  hours  that  she  had 
spent  in  futile  study  appeared  to  her  wasted!  At  her 
first  dinner  she  had  felt  as  bewildered  and  unhappy  as 
if  she  had  never  opened  one  of  those  thick  gaudy 
volumes  that  had  cost  so  much — as  much  as  a  box  of 
chocolates  every  day  for  a  week.  "I  don't  care," 
she  said  aloud,  with  sullen  resolution.  "I  am  going  to 
let  them  see  that  I  don't  want  any  favours." 

The  next  afternoon  she  went  out  early  in  order  to 
escape  Gershom;  but  when  she  came  in,  after  a  restless 
wandering  in  shops  and  a  short  drive,  she  met  him  just 
as  he  was  turning  away  from  the  door. 

"Something  told  me  I'd  find  you  at  this  hour,"  he 
remarked  with  unfailing  good  humour.  "Come  out 
and  walk  about  in  the  Square.  It  will  do  you  good." 

She  shook  her  head  impatiently.  "I'm  tired.  I 
don't  like  walking." 

"Well,  I  reckon  it's  easier  to  sit  anyway.  We'll 
go  inside." 

"No,  if  I've  got  to  talk  to  you  I'd  rather  do  it  out 
of  doors,"  she  replied,  turning  back  toward  the  gate. 


136  ONE  MAN  IN  HIS  TIME 

"That's  right.  The  air's  fine  I  shouldn't  wonder 
if  the  bad  weather  ain't  all  over." 

"I  don't  mind  the  bad  weather,"  she  retorted  pet 
tishly  because  it  was  the  only  remark  she  could  think 
of  that  sounded  disagreeable. 

They  passed  through  the  gate,  and  walked  rapidly  in 
the  direction  of  the  Washington  monument,  which 
lifted  a  splendid  silhouette  against  a  deep  blue  back 
ground  of  sky.  It  was  one  of  those  soft,  opal-tinted 
February  days  which  fall  like  a  lyric  interlude  in  the 
gray  procession  of  winter.  The  sunshine  lay  like  flow 
ing  gold  on  the  pavement;  and  the  breeze  that  stirred 
now  and  then  in  the  leafless  boughs  of  the  trees  was 
as  roving  and  provocative  as  the  air  of  spring.  In  the 
winding  brick  walks  of  the  Square  children  were  at 
play  with  the  squirrels  and  pigeons;  and  old  men,  with 
gnarled  hands  and  patient  hopeless  faces,  sat  warming 
themselves  in  the  sunshine  on  the  benches.  "Life!" 
she  thought.  "That's  life.  You  can't  get  away 
from  it."  Then  one  of  the  old  men  broke  into  a  cackle 
of  cheerful  laughter,  and  she  added:  "After  all  no 
body  is  ever  pathetic  to  himself." 

"I  believe  I'll  go  in,"  she  said,  turning  to  Gershom. 
"I  want  to  take  off  my  hat." 

He  laughed.  "Your  hat's  all  right,  ain't  it?  It 
looks  pretty  good  to  me." 

A  shiver  of  aversion  ran  through  her.  If  only  he 
wouldn't  try  to  be  funny!  If  only  he  had  been  born 
without  that  dreadful  sense  of  humour,  she  felt  that 
she  might  have  been  able  to  tolerate  him. 

"Please  don't,"  she  replied  fretfully. 

"Well,  I  won't,  if  you'll  walk  a  little  slower.  I  told 
you  I  had  something  to  say  to  you." 


THE  WORLD  AND  PATTY  137 

"I  don't  want  to  hear  it.  There's  no  use  talking 
about  it.  I'll  say  the  same  thing  if  you  ask  me  for  a 
hundred  years." 

A  chuckle  broke  from  him  while  he  stood  jauntily 
fingering  the  diamond  in  his  tie,  as  if  it  were  some  talis 
man  which  imparted  fresh  confidence.  Oh,  it  was  use 
less  to  try  to  put  a  man  like  that  in  his  place — for  his 
place  seemed  to  be  everywhere! 

"Well,  it  won't  do  any  harm,"  he  said  at  last.  "As 
long  as  I  like  to  listen  to  it." 

"I  wish  you  would  leave  me  alone." 

"But  suppose  I  can't?"  He  was  still  chaffing.  He 
would  continue  to  chaff,  she  was  convinced,  if  he  were 
dying.  "Suppose  I  ain't  made  that  way?" 

"I  don't  care  how  you're  made.  You  may  talk  to 
Father  if  you  like;  but  I'm  going  upstairs  to  take  off 
my  hat." 

His  chuckle  swelled  into  a  roar  of  laughter.  "Talk 
to  Father!  Haven't  I  been  talking  to  Father  over  at 
the  Capitol  for  the  last  three  hours?" 

They  had  reached  the  gate  beyond  the  monument,  and 
swinging  suddenly  round,  she  started  back  toward  the 
house.  As  she  passed  him  he  touched  the  end  of  her 
fur  stole  with  a  gesture  that  was  almost  imperative. 
His  eyes  had  dropped  their  veil  of  pleasantry,  and  she 
was  aware,  with  a  troubled  mind,  that  he  was  holding 
back  something  as  a  last  resource  if  she  continued  to 
prove  intractable.  Again  and  again  she  had  this  feel 
ing  when  she  was  with  him — an  uneasy  intuition  that 
his  good  humour  was  not  entirely  unassumed,  that  he 
was  concealing  a  dangerous  weapon  beneath  his  offen 
sive  familiarity. 

"After  all  I  may  be  going  to  surprise  you,"  he  said 


138  ONE  MAN  IN  HIS  TIME 

lightly  enough,  yet  with  this  disturbing  implication  of 
some  meaning  that  she  could  not  discern.  "What  if  I 
tell  you  that  I've  no  intention  of  making  love  to  you?  " 

"You  mean  there  is  something  else  you  want  to  see 
me  about?  "  She  breathed  a  sigh  of  relief,  and  her  light 
steps  fell  gradually  into  the  measure  of  his.  Her  con 
science  pricked  her  unpleasantly  when  she  remembered 
that  there  had  been  a  time  when  she  would  have  spoken 
less  curtly.  Well,  what  of  that?  It  was  characteris 
tic  of  her  energetic  mind  that  past  mistakes  were  dis 
missed  as  soon  as  they  were  discovered.  When  one 
started  out  in  life  knowing  nothing,  one  had  to  learn 
as  best  one  could,  that  was  all!  Every  day  was  a  new 
one,  so  why  bother  about  yesterday?  There  was 
trouble  enough  in  the  world  as  it  was,  without  dragging 
back  what  was  over. 

"Please  tell  me  what  it  is,"  she  said  impatiently. 

He  looked  at  her  with  curious  intentness.  "It  is 
about  an  aunt  of  yours — Mrs.  Green.  I  met  her  when 
I  was  in  California." 

Her  surprise  was  so  complete  that  he  must  have  been 
gratified. 

"An  aunt  of  mine?     I  haven't  any  aunt." 

For  a  minute  he  hesitated.  Now  that  he  had  come 
to  practical  matters  his  careless  jocularity  had  given 
place  to  a  manner  of  serious  deliberation.  "Then  your 
father  hasn't  told  you?"  he  asked. 

"Is  she  his  sister?"  Her  distrust  of  Gershom  was  so 
strong  that  she  could  not  bring  herself  to  a  direct  reply. 

"So  he  hasn't?"  After  all  she  might  as  well  have 
answered  his  question.  "No,  she  isn't  his  sister." 
His  smile  was  full  of  meaning. 

"Then  she  must  be" — there  was  a  change  in  her 


THE  WORLD  AND  PATTY  139 

voice  which  he  was  quick  to  detect — "she  must  be 
the  sister  of  iny  mother." 

"Didn't  you  know  that  she  had  one?"  he  enquired. 
"Don't  you  remember  seeing  her  when  you  were  a 
child?"  * 

She  shook  her  head.  "No,  I  don't  remember  her, 
and  Father  has  never  spoken  of  her." 

At  this  he  glanced  at  her  sharply,  and  then  looked 
away  over  the  tops  of  the  trees  to  the  political  mauso 
leum  of  the  City  Hall.  "We  take  that  as  a  sort  of 
joke  now,"  he  remarked  irrelevantly,  "but  the  time  was 
— and  not  so  long  ago  either — when  we  boasted  of  it 
more  than  of  the  Lee  monument.  Cost  a  lot  too,  they 
say !  Queer,  ain't  it,  the  way  we  spend  a  million  dollars 
or  more  on  a  thing  one  year,  and  the  next  want  to  kick 
it  out  on  the  junk  heap?  I  reckon  it's  the  same  way 
about  behaviour  too.  It  ain't  so  much  what  you  do 
as  the  time  you  do  it  in  that  seems  to  make  the  differ 
ence."  As  she  showed  no  inclination  to  follow  this 
train  of  moralizing,  he  asked  suddenly,  "Do  you  re 
member  your  mother?" 

"Only  once.  I  remember  seeing  her  once."  He  had 
not  imagined  that  her  voice  could  become  so  gentle. 

"Did  they  ever  tell  you  what  became  of  her?" 

"Yes,  I  know  that.  She  lost  her  mind.  They  told 
me  that  she  died  in  the  asylum." 

He  was  still  watching  her  closely,  as  if  he  were  ob 
serving  the  effect  on  her  nerves  of  each  word  he  uttered. 
"Did  they  tell  you  the  cause  of  it?" 

She  shook  her  head.     "That  was  all  they  ever  told 


me." 


"You  mean  your  father  never  mentioned  it  to  you? 
Are  you  sure  he  never  spoke  of  Mrs.  Green?" 


140  ONE  MAN  IN  HIS  TIME 

"I  shouldn't  have  forgotten.  But,  if  she  is  my 
mother's  sister,  why  has  she  never  written  to  me?" 

"Ah,  that's  just  it!  She  was  afraid  your  father 
wouldn't  like  it.  There  was  a  difference  of  some  kind. 
I  don't  know  what  it  was  about — but  they  didn't  get 
on — and — and " 

"I  am  sure  Father  was  right.  He  is  always  right," 
she  said  loyally. 

"Well,  he  may  have  been.  I'm  not  denying  that ;  but 
it's  an  old  story  now,  and  I  wouldn't  bring  it  up  again,  if  I 
were  you.  He  has  enough  things  to  carry  without  that." 

She  hesitated  a  moment  before  replying.  "Yes,  I 
suppose  it's  better  not  to  speak  of  it.  He  has  too  many 


worries." 


"I  knew  you'd  see  it  that  way;  you're  a  girl  of  sense. 
And  if  Mrs.  Green  should  ever  come  here,  must  I  tell 
her  that  you  would  like  to  see  her?" 

"Does  she  think  of  coming  here?  California  is  so 
far  away." 

"Well,  people  do  come,  don't  they?  And  I  know 
she'd  like  to  see  you.  She  was  very  fond  of  your  mother. 
I  used  to  know  both  of  'em  in  the  old  days  when  I  was 
a  boy." 

"Of  course  I'd  like  to  see  her  if  she  could  tell  me 
about  my  mother.  I  want  to  ask  questions  about  her 
— only  it  makes  Father  so  unhappy  when  I  bring  up 
the  past." 

"It  would,  I  reckon.  Things  like  that  are  better 
forgotten."  Then,  dismissing  the  subject  abruptly, 
he  remarked  in  the  old  tone  of  facetious  familiarity, 
"I  never  saw  you  looking  better.  What  have  you 
done  to  yourself?  You  are  always  imitating  some  new 
person  every  time  I  see  you." 


THE  WORLD  AND  PATTY  141 

"I  am  not!"  Her  temper  flashed  out.  "I  never 
imitate  anybody."  Yet,  even  as  she  passionately 
denied  the  charge,  she  knew  that  it  was  true.  For  a 
week,  ever  since  her  first  visit  to  the  old  print  shop, 
she  had  tried  to  copy  Corinna's  voice,  the  carriage  of 
her  head,  her  smile,  her  gestures. 

"Well,  you  needn't,"  he  assured  her  with  admiring 
pleasantry.  "As  far  as  looks  go — and  that's  a  long 
way — I  haven't  seen  any  one  that  was  better  than 
you!" 


CHAPTER  IX 

SEPTEMBER  ROSES 

THE  afternoon  sunshine  streamed  through  the  dull 
gold  curtains  into  the  old  print  shop  where  Corinna  sat 
in  her  tapestry -covered  chair  between  the  tea-table  and 
the  log  fire.  She  was  alone  for  the  moment;  and  lying 
back  in  the  warmth  and  fragrance  of  the  room,  she  let 
her  gaze  rest  lovingly  on  one  of  the  English  mezzotints 
over  which  a  stray  sunbeam  quivered.  The  flames 
made  a  pleasant  whispering  sound  over  the  cedar  logs; 
her  favourite  wide-open  creamy  roses  with  golden 
hearts  scented  the  air;  and  the  delicate  China  tea  in  her 
cup  was  drawn  to  perfection.  As  she  lay  back  in  the  big 
chair  but  one  thing  disturbed  her  serenity — and  that 
one  thing  was  within.  She  had  everything  that  she 
wanted,  and  for  the  hour,  at  least,  she  was  tired  of  it  all. 
The  mood  was  transient,  she  knew.  It  would  pass  be 
cause  it  was  alien  to  the  clear  bracing  air  of  her  mind; 
but  while  it  lasted  she  told  herself  that  the  present  had 
palled  on  her  because  she  had  looked  beneath  the  vivid 
surface  of  illusion  to  the  bare  structure  of  life.  Men 
had  ceased  to  interest  her  because  she  knew  them  too 
well.  She  knew  by  heart  the  very  machinery  of  their 
existence,  the  secret  mental  springs  which  moved  them 
so  mechanically;  and  she  felt  to-day  that  if  they  had 
been  watches,  she  could  have  taken  them  apart  and  put 
them  together  again  without  suspending  for  a  minute 
the  monotonous  regularity  of  their  works.  Even 

142 


SEPTEMBER  ROSES  143 

Gideon  Vetch,  who  might  have  held  a  surprise  for  her, 
had  differed  from  the  rest  in  one  thing  only:  he  had 
not  seen  that  she  was  beautiful!  And  it  wasn't  that 
she  was  breaking.  To-day  because  of  her  mood  of 
depression,  she  appeared  drooping  and  faded;  but  that 
night,  a  week  ago,  in  her  velvet  gown  and  her  pearls, 
she  had  looked  as  handsome  as  ever.  The  truth  was 
simply  that  Vetch  had  glanced  at  her  without  seeing 
her,  as  he  might  have  glanced  at  the  gilded  sheaves  of 
wheat  on  a  picture  frame.  He  had  been  so  profoundly 
absorbed  in  his  own  ideas  that  she  had  been  nothing 
more  individual  than  one  of  an  audience.  If  he  were  to 
meet  her  in  the  street  he  would  probably  not  recognize 
her.  And  this  was  a  man  who  had  never  before  seen  a 
woman  whose  beauty  had  passed  into  history,  a  man 
who  had  risen  to  his  place  through  what  the  Judge  had 
described  with  charitable  euphemism,  as  "unusual 
methods."  "The  odd  part  about  Vetch,"  the  Judge 
had  added  meditatively  on  the  drive  home,  "is  that  he 
doesn't  attempt  to  disguise  the  kind  of  thing  that  we  of 
the  old  school  would  call — well,  to  say  the  least — ex 
traordinary.  He  is  as  outspoken  as  Mirabeau.  I  can't 
make  it  out.  It  may  be,  of  course,  that  he  has  a  better 
reading  of  human  nature  than  we  have,  and  that  he 
knows  such  gestures  catch  the  eye,  like  long  hair  or  a  red 
necktie.  It  is  very  much  as  if  he  said — 'Yes,  I'll  steal 
if  I'm  driven  to  it,  but — confound  it! — I  won't  lie!"! 
After  all,  the  sting  to  her  vanity  had  been  too  slight 
to  leave  an  impression.  There  must  be  another  cause 
for  the  shadow  that  had  fallen  over  her  spirits.  Even  a 
reigning  beauty  of  thirty  years  could  scarcely  expect 
to  be  invincible;  and  she  had  known  too  much  homage 
in  the  past  to  resent  what  was  obviously  a  lack  of 


144  ONE  MAN  IN  HIS  TIME 

discrimination.  Her  disappointment  went  deeper  than 
this,  for  it  had  its  source  in  the  stories  she  had  heard  of 
Vetch  that  sounded  original  and  dramatic.  She  had 
imagined  a  personality  that  was  striking,  spectacular,  or 
at  least  interesting;  and  the  actual  Gideon  Vetch  had 
seemed  to  her  merely  unimpressive  and  ordinary.  Be 
side  John  Benham  (as  the  thought  of  Benham  returned 
to  her,  her  spirit  rose  on  wings  out  of  the  shadow), 
beside  John  Benham,  in  the  drawing-room  after  dinner, 
Vetch  had  appeared  at  a  disadvantage  that  was  almost 
ridiculous;  and,  as  Stephen  Culpeper  had  hastened  to 
point  out,  this  was  merely  a  striking  illustration  of  the 
damning  contrast  between  the  Governor's  chequered 
political  career  and  Benham's  stainless  record  of  service. 

A  smile  curved  her  lips  as  she  gazed  at  the  quivering 
sunbeams.  Was  that  deep  instinct  for  perfection,  the 
romantic  vision  of  things  as  they  ought  to  be,  awaking 
again?  Did  the  starry  flower  bloom  not  in  the  dream, 
but  in  reality?  The  passion  to  create  beauty,  to  bring 
happiness,  which  had  been  extinguished  for  years, 
burned  afresh  in  her  heart.  Yes,  as  long  as  there  was 
beauty,  as  long  as  there  was  nobility  of  spirit,  she  could 
fight  on  as  one  who  believed  in  the  future. 

A  shadow  darkened  the  window,  and  a  moment  after 
ward  there  was  a  fall  of  the  old  silver  knocker  on  her 
door.  She  thought  at  first — the  shadow  had  seemed  so 
young — that  it  was  Stephen;  but  when  she  opened  the 
door,  she  saw,  with  a  lovely  flush,  that  it  was  John  Ben- 
ham. 

"You  expected  me?"  he  asked,  raising  her  hand  to  his 
lips. 

"Yes,  I  knew  that  you  would  come,"  she  answered, 
and  the  flush  died  away  slowly  as  she  turned  back  to  the 


SEPTEMBER  ROSES  145 

fire.  In  the  moment  of  recognition  all  the  despondency 
had  vanished  so  utterly  that  it  had  not  left  even  a 
memory.  He  had  brought  not  only  peace,  but  youth 
and  happiness  back  to  her  eyes. 

He  came  in  as  impressively  as  he  presented  himself  to 
an  audience;  and  with  the  glow  of  pleasure  still  in  her 
heart,  she  found  her  keen  and  observant  mind  watching 
him  almost  as  if  he  were  a  stranger.  This  had  been 
her  misfortune  always,  the  ardent  heart  joined  to  the 
critical  judgment,  the  spectator  chained  eternally  to 
the  protagonist.  She  received  a  swift  impression  that 
he  had  prepared  his  words  and  even  his  gestures,  the 
kiss  on  her  fingers.  Yet,  in  spite  of  this  suggestion  of 
the  actor,  or  because  of  it,  he  possessed,  she  felt,  great 
distinction.  The  straight  backward  sweep  of  his  hair; 
the  sharp  clearness  of  his  profile ;  the  steady  serenity  of 
his  gray  eyes;  the  ease  and  suppleness  and  indolent 
strength  of  his  tall  thin  figure — all  these  physical  details 
expressed  the  reserves  and  inhibitions  of  generations. 
The  only  flaw  that  she  could  detect  was  that  dryness  of 
soul  that  she  had  noticed  before,  as  of  soil  that  has  been 
too  heavily  drained.  She  knew  that  he  excelled  in  all 
the  virtues  that  are  monumental  and  public,  that  he 
was  an  honourable  opponent,  a  scrupulous  defender  of 
established  rules  and  precedents.  He  would  always 
reach  the  goal,  but  his  race  would  never  carry  him 
beyond  the  end  of  the  course;  he  would  always  fulfil 
the  law,  but  he  would  never  give  more  than  the  exact 
measure;  he  would  always  fight  for  the  risen  Christ,  but 
he  would  never  have  followed  the  humble  bearer  of  the 
Cross.  His  strength  and  weakness  were  the  kind  which 
had  profoundly  influenced  her  life.  He  represented  in 
her  world  the  conservative  principle,  the  accepted  stand- 


146  ONE  MAN  IN  HIS  TIME 

ard,  the  acknowledged  authority,  custom,  stability,  rea 
son,  and  moderation. 

As  he  sat  down  in  front  of  the  fire,  he  looked  at  her 
with  a  gentle  possessive  gaze. 

"Of  course  you  have  never  sold  a  print,"  he  remarked 
in  a  laughing  tone,  and  she  responded  as  flippantly. 

"Of  course!" 

"Why  didn't  you  call  it  a  collection?" 

''Because  people  wouldn't  come." 

"  Then  why  didn't  you  keep  them  at  home  where  you 
have  so  much  that  is  fine?" 

She  laughed.  "Because  people  couldn't  come.  I 
mean  the  people  I  don't  know.  I  have  a  fancy  for  the 
people  I  have  never  met." 

"On  the  principle  that  the  unknown  is  the  desirable." 

She  nodded.  "And  that  the  desirable  is  the  un 
attainable." 

His  gray  eyes  were  warmed  by  a  fugitive  glow.  "I 
shouldn't  have  put  it  that  way  in  your  case.  You  ap 
pear  to  have  everything." 

"Do  I?  Well,  that  twists  the  sentence  backward. 
Shall  we  say  that  the  attainable  is  the  undesirable?" 

"Surely  not.  Can  you  have  ceased  already  to  desire 
these  lovely  things?  Could  that  piece  of  tapestry  lose 
its  charm  for  you,  or  that  Spanish  desk,  or  those 
English  prints,  or  the  old  morocco  of  that  binding? 
Do  you  feel  that  the  colours  in  that  brocade  at  your 
back  could  ever  become  meaningless?" 

"I  am  not  sure.  Wouldn't  it  be  possible  to  look  at  it 
while  you  were  seeing  something  else,  something  so 
drab  that  it  would  take  the  colour  out  of  all  beauty?" 
She  was  looking  at  him  over  the  tea-table,  and  while  she 
asked  the  question  she  raised  a  lump  of  sugar  in  the 


SEPTEMBER  ROSES  147 

quaint  old  sugar  tongs  she  had  brought  home  from 
Florence. 

He  shook  his  head.  "I  am  denied  sugar.  Has  it 
ever  occurred  to  you  that  middle  age  ought  to  be  called 
the  age  of  denial?"  Then  his  tone  changed.  "But 
I  wonder  if  you  begin  to  realize  how  fortunate  you  are? 
You  have  the  collector's  instinct  and  the  means  to 
gratify  it.  To  discover  with  you  is  to  possess — don't  you 
understand  the  blessing  of  that?  You  love  beauty  as  a 
favoured  daughter,  not  as  one  of  the  disinherited  who 
can  only  peer  through  the  windows  of  her  palace." 

"But  you  also — you  love  beauty  as  I  do." 

"  But  I  can't  own  it — not  as  you  do."  He  was  speak 
ing  frankly.  "I  haven't  the  means.  At  least  what  I 
have  I  have  made  myself,  and  therefore  I  guard  it  more 
carefully.  It  is  only  those  who  have  once  been  poor 
who  are  really  under  the  curse  of  money,  for  that  curse 
is  the  inability  to  understand  that  money  is  less  valuable 
than  anything  else  on  earth  that  you  happen  to  need 
or  desire.  Now  to  me  the  most  terrible  thing  on  earth  is 
not  to  be  without  beauty,  but  to  be  without  money " 

She  smiled.     "You  are  talking  like  Gideon  Vetch." 

He  caught  at  the  name  quickly.  "Like  Gideon 
Vetch?  You  mean  that  I  sound  ignoble?" 

The  laughter  in  his  eyes  made  him  look  almost  boyish, 
and  she  felt  that  she  had  come  suddenly  close  to  him. 
After  all  he  was  very  attractive. 

"Is  he  ignoble?"  she  asked.  "I  have  seen  him  only 
once,  and  that  was  at  the  dinner  a  week  ago." 

He  looked  at  her  intently.  "I  should  like  to  know 
what  you  think." 

"I  hardly  know — but — well,  I  must  confess  that  I 
was  disappointed." 


148  ONE  MAN  IN  HIS  TIME 

"You  expected  something  better?" 

She  hesitated  over  her  answer.  "I  expected  some 
thing  different.  I  suppose  I  looked  for  the  dash  of 
purple — or  at  least  of  red — in  his  appearance." 

"And  he  seemed  ordinary?" 

"In  a  way — yes.  His  features  are  not  striking,  and 
yet  when  he  talks  to  you  and  gets  interested  in  his  own 
ideas,  he  sheds  a  kind  of  warmth  that  is  like  magnet 
ism.  I  couldn't  analyse  it,  but  it  is  there." 

"That,  I  suppose,  is  the  charm  of  which  they  talk. 
Warmth,  or  perhaps  heat,  is  a  better  word  for  it.  Fortu 
nately  I'm  proof  against  it  because  of  what  you  might 
call  an  asbestos  temperament;  but  I've  seen  it  catch 
fire  in  a  crowd,  and  it  sweeps  over  an  audience  like  a 
blaze  over  a  prairie.  It  is  a  cheap  kind  of  oratory;  yet 
it  is  a  power  in  unscrupulous  hands — and  Vetch  is  un 
scrupulous." 

"You  believe  that?" 

"I  know  it.  It  has  been  proved  again  and  again  that 
he  will  stoop  to  any  means  in  order  to  advance  his  ideas, 
which  mean  of  course  his  ambition.  Oh,  I'm  not  de 
nying  that  in  the  main  he  is  sincere,  that  he  believes 
in  his  phrases.  As  a  matter  of  fact  one  has  only  to  look 
at  his  appointments,  those  that  he  is  able  to  make  by 
his  own  authority!  There  isn't  a  doubt  in  the  world 
that  he  deliberately  sold  his  office  in  exchange  for  his 
election " 

So  this  was  one  honest  man's  view  of  Gideon  Vetch! 
John  Benham  believed  this  accusation,  for  some  in 
fallible  intuition  told  her  that  Benham  would  never 
have  repeated  it,  even  as  a  rumour,  if  he  had  not  be 
lieved  it.  Her  father's  genial  defence  of  the  Governor; 
his  ironic  aristocratic  sympathy  with  the  radical  point 


SEPTEMBER  ROSES  149 

of  view  appeared  superficial  and  unconvincing  beside 
Benham's  moral  repudiation.  And  yet  what  after  all 
was  the  simple  truth  about  Gideon  Vetch?  What  was 
the  true  colour  of  that  variable  personality,  which 
appeared  to  shift  and  alter  according  to  the  tempera 
ment  or  the  convictions  of  each  observer?  She  had 
never  known  two  men  who  agreed  about  Vetch,  except 
perhaps  Benham  and  his  disciple,  Stephen  Culpeper. 
Each  man  saw  Vetch  differently,  and  was  this  because 
each  man  saw  in  the  great  demagogue  only  the  particu 
lar  virtue  or  vice  for  which  he  was  looking,  the  reflection 
of  personal  preferences  or  aversions?  It  seemed  to  her 
suddenly  that  the  Governor,  whom  she  had  thought 
commonplace,  towered  an  immense  vague  figure  in  a 
cloud  of  misinterpretation  and  misunderstanding.  His 
followers  believed  in  him;  his  opponents  distrusted  him; 
but  was  this  not  true  of  every  political  leader  since  the 
beginning  of  politics?  The  power  to  inspire  equally 
devotion  and  hatred  had  been  throughout  history  the 
authentic  sign  of  the  saviour  and  of  the  destroyer. 
Her  curiosity,  which  had  waned,  flared  up  more  strongly 
than  ever. 

"I  should  like  to  know,"  she  said  aloud,  "what  he  is 
truthfully?" 

Benham  laughed  as  he  rose  to  go.     "Do  you  think 
he  can  be  anything  truthfully?" 

"Oh,  yes,  even  if  it  is  only  a  demagogue." 
"Only  a  demagogue!     My  dear  Corinna,  the  dema 
gogue  is  the  one  everlasting  and  unalterable  American 
institution.     He  is  the  idol  of  the  Senate  chamber;  the 
power  behind  the  Constitution." 

"But  what  does  he  really  stand  for — Vetch,  I  mean?" 
"Ask  him.     He  would  enjoy  telling  you." 


150  ONE  MAN  IN  HIS  TIME 

"Would  he  enjoy  telling  me  the  truth?" 

With  the  laughter  still  in  his  eyes  Benham  drew 
nearer  and  stood  looking  down  on  her.  "Oh,  I  don't 
mean  that  he  is  pure  humbug.  I  haven't  a  doubt,  as  I 
told  you,  that  he  believes,  sufficiently  at  least  for 
election  purposes,  in  the  fallacies  that  he  advocates, 
even  in  the  old  age  pension,  the  minimum,  or  more 
accurately,  the  maximum  wage,  and  of  course  in  what 
doesn't  sound  so  Utopian  since  we  have  experimented 
with  it,  that  favourite  dogma  of  the  near-Socialists,  the 
Government  ownership  of  railroads.  His  main  theory, 
however,  appears  to  be  some  far-fetched  abstraction 
which  he  calls  the  humanizing  of  industry — you've 
heard  that  before!  Mere  bombast,  you  see,  but  the 
kind  of  thing  that  is  dangerous  in  a  crowd.  It  is  the 
catchpenny  politics  that  has  been  the  curse  of  our 
country." 

"And  of  course  he  is  not  a  gentleman."  Corinna's 
voice  was  regretful.  "I  may  be  old-fashioned,  but  I 
can't  help  feeling  that  the  Governor  ought  to  be  a 
gentleman.  That  sounds  like  General  Plummer,  I 
know,"  she  concluded  apologetically. 

"The  archaic  cult  of  the  gentleman?  Well,  I  like  to 
think  that  in  Virginia  it  still  has  a  few  obscure  followers. 
It  is  a  prejudice  that  I  dare  to  admit  only  when  I  am  not 
on  the  platform,  for  the  belief  in  the  gentleman  has 
become  a  kind  of  underground  religion,  like  the  worship 
in  the  Catacombs." 

Her  eyes  had  grown  wistful  when  she  answered:  "  It 
is  the  price  we  pay  for  democracy." 

"The  price  we  pay  is  the  reign  of  social  justice  in 
theory,  and  in  practice  the  rule  of  the  Gideon  Vetches  of 
history.  Oh,  I  admit  that  it  may  all  work  out  in  the 


SEPTEMBER  ROSES  151 

end!  That  is  my  political  creed,  you  know — that 
everything  and  anything  may  work  out  in  the  end.  If 
I  stood  simply  for  tradition  without  progress,  I  should 
long  ago  have  been  driven  to  the  wall." 

"I  feel  as  you  do,"  she  said  after  a  moment,  "and  yet 
I  am  curious  to  see  what  will  become  of  our  experimental 
Governor." 

"And  I  also.  The  man  may  have  executive  ability, 
and  it  is  possible  that  he  may  give  us  an  efficient  ad 
ministration.  But,  of  course,  it  is  merely  a  stepping- 
stone  for  his  inordinate  greed  for  power.  His  vanity 
has  been  inflamed  by  success,  and  he  sees  the  Senate, 
it  may  be  even  the  Presidency,  ahead  of  him." 

Though  she  smiled  there  was  a  note  of  earnestness  in 
her  voice.  "Well,  why  not?  There  was  once  a  rail 
splitter " 

"Oh,  I  know.  But  the  rail  splitter  was  born  a  presi 
dent;  and  it  is  a  far  cry  to  a  circus  rider  who  was  not 
born  even  a  gentleman." 

"Perhaps.  Yet,  right  or  wrong,  hasn't  the  war 
stretched  a  little  the  safety  net  of  our  democracy? 
Isn't  it  just  possible  to-day  that  we  might  find  a  circus 
rider  who  was  born  a  president  too?"  Then  before  he 
could  toss  back  her  questions  he  asked  quickly,  "After 
all,  he  didn't  actually  ride,  did  he?" 

Benham  shrugged  his  shoulders,  a  gesture  he  had 
acquired  in  France.  "I've  heard  so,  but  I  don't  know. 
They  tell  queer  tales  of  his  early  years.  That  was  be 
fore  the  golden  age  of  the  movies,  you  see;  and  I  suspect 
that  the  movies  rather  than  the  war  introduced  the 
mock  heroic  into  politics." 

He  was  still  standing  at  her  side,  looking  down  into 
her  upraised  eyes,  which  made  him  think  of  brown 


152  ONE  MAN  IN  HIS  TIME 

velvet.  For  a  long  pause  after  speaking  he  remained 
silent,  drinking  in  the  fragrance  of  the  room,  the  whis 
pering  of  the  flames,  and  the  dreamy  loveliness  of 
Corinna's  expression.  A  change  had  come  over  her 
face.  In  the  flushed  light  she  looked  young  and  elusive; 
and  it  seemed  to  him  that,  beneath  the  glowing  tissue 
of  flesh,  he  gazed  upon  an  indestructible  beauty  of 
spirit. 

"Do  you  know  what  I  was  thinking?"  he  asked 
presently.  "I  was  thinking  that  I'd  known  all  this 
before — that  I'd  been  waiting  for  it  always — the  fire 
light  on  these  splendid  colours,  the  smell  of  the  roses, 
the  sound  of  the  flames,  and  the  way  you  looked  up  at 
me  with  that  memory  in  your  eyes.  'I  have  been  here 
before'." 

A  quiver  as  faint  as  the  shadow  of  a  flower  crossed 
her  face.  "Yes,  I  remember.  It  is  an  odd  feeling.  I 
suppose  every  one  has  felt  it  at  times — only  each  one  of 
us  likes  to  think  that  he  is  the  particular  instance." 

"It  is  trite,  I  know,"  he  said  with  a  smile,  "but  feel 
ing  is  never  very  original,  is  it?  Only  thought  is  new." 

"But  I  would  rather  have  feeling,  wouldn't  you?" 
she  asked  in  a  low  voice,  and  sat  waiting  in  a  lovely 
attitude,  prepared  without  and  within,  for  the  mo 
ment  that  was  approaching.  There  was  no  excitement 
in  such  things  now,  she  had  had  too  much  experience; 
but  there  was  an  unending  interest. 

"Then  it  isn't  too  late?"  he  asked  quickly;  and  again 
after  a  pause  in  which  she  did  not  answer:  "Corinna, 
is  it  too  late?" 

For  a  minute  longer  she  looked  up  at  him  in  silence. 
The  glow  was  still  in  her  eyes;  the  smile  was  still  on  her 
lips;  and  it  seemed  to  him  that  she  was  wrapped  in  some 


SEPTEMBER  ROSES  153 

enchantment  which  wrought  not  in  actual  life  but  in 
allegory — that  the  light  in  which  she  moved  belonged 
less  to  earth  than  to  Botticelli's  springtime.  Was 
romance,  after  all,  he  thought  sharply,  the  only  reality? 
Could  one  never  escape  it? 

While  he  looked  down  on  her  she  had  stirred,  as  if  she 
were  awaking  from  a  dream,  or  a  memory,  and  stretched 
out  her  hand. 

"Is  it  ever  too  late,"  she  responded,  "as  long  as  there 
is  any  happiness  left  in  the  world?" 

She  smiled  as  she  answered  him;  but  suddenly  her 
smile  faded  and  that  faint  shadow  passed  again  over  her 
face.  In  the  very  moment  w^hen  he  had  bent  toward 
her,  there  had  drifted  before  her  gaze  the  soft  anxious 
eyes  of  Alice  Rokeby,  and  the  look  in  them  as  they 
followed  John  Benham  that  evening  a  week  ago. 

"Oh,  my  dear,"  said  Benham  softly.  Then  his  voice 
broke  and  he  drew  back  hurriedly,  for  a  figure  had 
darkened  the  low  window,  and  a  minute  afterward  the 
door  opened  and  Patty  Vetch  entered  the  room. 

"The  latch  was  not  fastened,  so  I  came  in,"  she 
began,  and  stopped  as  her  look  fell  on  Benham.  "I — I 
hope  you  don't  mind,"  she  added  in  confusion. 


CHAPTER  X 

PATTY  AND  CORINNA 

PATTY  had  come  straight  to  Corinna  after  a  conver 
sation  with  Stephen.  She  needed  sympathy,  and  she 
had  meant  to  be  frank  and  confiding;  but  when  Benham 
left  them  alone  in  the  lovely  room,  which  made  her  feel 
as  if  she  had  stepped  into  one  of  the  stained  glass 
windows  in  the  old  church  she  attended,  her  courage 
failed,  and  she  forgot  all  the  impulsive  words  she  had 
learned  by  heart  in  the  street. 

"I  am  so  glad,"  said  Corinna  sweetly.  "I  went  to  see 
you  after  luncheon  to-day,  and  I  was  very  much  dis 
appointed  not  to  find  you  at  home." 

"That  was  why  I  came,"  answered  Patty.  "Your 
card  was  there  when  I  got  in,  and  I  couldn't  bear  miss 
ing  you." 

"That  was  right,  dear.  It  was  what  I  hoped  you 
would  do." 

Turning  back  to  the  fire,  Corinna  stooped  and  flung  a 
fresh  log  on  the  Florentine  andirons.  Then,  without 
glancing  at  the  girl,  she  sat  down  in  one  of  the  deep 
chairs  by  the  hearth,  and  motioned  invitingly  to  a  place 
at  her  side.  She  was  determined  to  win  Patty's  heart, 
and  she  wanted  to  be  near  enough  to  reach  out  her  hand 
when  the  right  moment  came.  That  moment  had  not 
come  yet,  and  she  knew  it,  for  she  was  wise  from 
experience.  There  was  time  enough,  and  she  felt  no 
impulse  to  hasten  developments.  She  was  strongly 

154 


PATTY  AND  CORINNA  155 

attracted,  and  since  her  sympathy  was  easily  stirred, 
she  wished,  without  any  great  desire,  to  help  the  girl  if 
she  could.  The  only  way,  she  realized,  was  to  watch 
and  hope,  to  play  the  waiting  game  as  far  as  this  was 
possible  to  her  active  nature.  For,  above  all  things, 
Corinna  hated  to  wait;  and  this  potent  energy  of  soul, 
this  vital  flame,  had  given  the  look  of  winged  radiance 
to  her  eyes. 

"You  are  always  so  happy,"  said  Patty  breathlessly, 
as  she  leaned  forward  and  held  out  her  hands  to  Corinna 
as  if  she  were  the  fire.  "Everything  about  you  seems 
to  give  out  joy  every  minute." 

"You  dear!"  murmured  Corinna  softly,  for  admi 
ration  was  to  her  nature  what  sunshine  is  to  a  flower. 
"I  am  happy  to-day — happy  as  I  thought  I  should 
never  be  again.  I  am  so  happy  that  I  should  like  to 
take  the  whole  world  to  my  heart  and  heal  its  misery." 
Then  she  added  hastily  before  the  girl  could  reply: 
"You  came  just  at  the  right  moment.  I  have  wanted 
a  talk  with  you,  and  there  couldn't  be  a  better  oppor 
tunity  than  this.  The  other  night  I  tried  to  join  you 
after  dinner;  but  Mrs.  Berkeley  got  all  the  women  to 
gether,  and  I  didn't  have  a  chance  to  speak  a  word  to 
you  alone.  You  looked  charming  in  that  scarlet  dress. 
Your  head  is  shaped  so  prettily  that  I  think  you  are 
wise  to  cut  your  hair.  It  makes  you  look  like  a  page  of 
the  Italian  Renaissance." 

"Do  you  really  like  it?"  asked  Patty,  and  her  voice 
trembled  with  pleasure.  "Father  hates  it,  but  men 
never  know." 

Corinna  laughed.  "Not  much  more  about  fashions 
than  they  know  about  women." 

"And  that  isn't  anything,  is  it?" 


156  ONE  MAN  IN  HIS  TIME 

"Well,  perhaps  they'll  learn  some  day — by  the  time 
I  am  dead  and  you  are  old.  You  look  so  young,  you 
can't  be  over  eighteen." 

"I'll  be  nineteen  next  summer — at  least  I  think  I 
shall,  for  nobody  knows  exactly  when  my  birthday 


comes." 


"Not  even  your  father?" 

"No,  he  guesses  it's  in  June,  but  he  isn't  perfectly 
sure,  and  he  hasn't  any  idea  what  day  of  the  month  it 
is.  He  gives  me  a  birthday  gift  whenever  he  happens  to 
think  of  it." 

For  a  minute  Corinna  gazed  thoughtfully  into  the 
fire.  "It  is  queer  the  things  men  can't  remember,"  she 
said  at  last.  "Now,  my  father  always  forgets,  or  pre 
tends  to,  that  I've  ever  been  married." 

"Then  I  needn't  be  so  surprised,"  rejoined  Patty 
brightly,  "when  mine  forgets  that  I  ever  was  born!" 

"Oh,  he  doesn't  forget  it  really,  my  dear.  He  adores 
you." 

"He  is  an  angel  to  me,"  answered  the  girl  with 
passionate  loyalty.  "I've  never  had  any  one  else,  you 
know,  and  he  has  been  simply  everything.  Only  I  do 
wish  he  wouldn't  have  that  tiresome  Miss  Spencer  to 
live  with  us." 

"But  you  ought  to  have  some  one  with  you." 

"Not  some  one  like  that.  She  doesn't  know  as 
much  as  I  do ;  but  Father  thinks  she  is  all  right  because 
she  lets  her  hair  turn  gray  and  wears  long  dresses." 

Corinna's  laugh  was  like  music.  "It  takes  more 
than  that  to  make  a  virtuous  mind!"  she  exclaimed, 
but  she  was  not  thinking  of  Miss  Spencer. 

"Do  you  know,"  said  Patty,  leaning  forward  and 
speaking  with  the  earnestness  of  a  child,  "I  doubt  if 


PATTY  AXD  CORINNA  157 

Father  ever  looked  at  a  well-dressed  woman  until  he 
met  you." 

Was  it  natural  ingenuousness,  or  did  the  girl  have  a 
deeper  motive?  For  an  instant  Corinna  wondered; 
then  she  returned  merrily:  "Certainly  he  wouldn't 
look  at  me  when  Mrs.  Stribling  is  near." 

"Yes,  he  admires  Mrs.  Stribling  very  much,"  replied 
Patty  gravely,  "but  I  don't.  She  isn't  a  bit  real." 

Comma's  gaze  softened  until  it  swept  the  girl's  face 
like  a  caress.  "I  hope  you  won't  mind  my  calling  you 
Patty,"  she  responded  irrelevantly.  "It  is  so  hard  to 
say  Miss  Vetch,  for  I  can  see  that  we  are  going  to  be 
friends." 

"Oh,  if  you  will!"  cried  Patty  breathlessly,  and  she 
added  eagerly,  "I  have  never  had  a  real  friend,  you 
know,  and  you  are  so  beautiful.  You  are  more  beauti 
ful  than  anybody  I  ever  saw  on  the  stage." 

"Or  in  the  movies?"  Corinna's  voice  was  mirthful, 
but  there  was  a  deep  tenderness  in  her  eyes.  Was  the 
girl  as  shallow  as  she  appeared,  or  was  there,  beneath 
her  vivid  enamel-like  surface,  some  rich  plastic  sub 
stance  of  character?  Was  she  worth  helping,  worth 
the  generous  friendship  that  Corinna  could  give,  or  was 
she  merely  a  bit  of  human  driftwood  that  would  burn 
out  presently  in  the  thin  flame  of  some  transient  pas 
sion?  "I'll  take  the  risk,"  thought  Corinna.  "A 
risk  is  worth  taking,"  for  there  was  sporting  blood  in 
her  veins.  While  she  sat  there  in  silence,  listening  to 
the  artless  unfolding  of  the  girl's  thoughts,  she  appeared 
to  be  searching  for  the  hidden  possibilities  in  that  crude 
young  spirit.  So  often  in  the  past  the  older  wroman  had 
given  herself  abundantly  only  to  meet  disappointment 
and  ingratitude.  Why  should  it  be  different  now? 


158  ONE  MAN  IN  HIS  TIME 

What  was  there  in  this  unformed  child  that  appealed 
so  strongly  to  her  sympathy  and  tenderness?  Not 
beauty  surely,  for  Patty  was  merely  pretty.  Charm 
she  had  unmistakably;  but  it  was  a  charm  that  men 
would  feel  rather  than  women;  and  of  all  the  feminine 
varieties  that  Corinna  had  known  in  the  past,  she  dis 
liked  most  heartily  "the  man's  woman."  Was  her 
impulse  to  help  only  the  need  of  a  fresh  interest,  the 
craving  for  a  new  amusement?  The  heart  of  life  she  had 
never  reached.  Something  was  missing — the  unfading 
light,  the  starry  flower  that  she  had  never  found  in 
her  search.  Now  at  last,  in  a  golden  middle  age,  she 
told  herself  that  she  would  build  her  happiness  not  on 
perfection,  but  on  the  second  best  of  experience.  She 
would  accept  the  milder  joys,  the  daily  miracles,  the 
fulfilled  adventures.  And  so,  partly  because  she  liked 
the  girl,  and  partly  because  of  a  generous  whim,  she  said 
presently: 

"You  shall  have  a  friend — a  real  friend — from  this 
day." 

Patty  who  had  been  gazing  into  the  fire  turned  on  her 
a  face  that  was  as  sparkling  as  a  sunbeam.  "I  would 
rather  have  you  for  a  friend  than  anybody  in  the  world," 
she  responded  in  a  voice  so  caressing  that  Stephen  would 
not  have  believed  it  belonged  to  her. 

"I  am  sure  that  I  can  be  useful  to  you,"  said  Corinna, 
for  the  gratitude  in  the  girl's  voice  touched  and  em 
barrassed  her,  "and  I  know  that  you  can  be  to  me. 
How  would  you  like  to  come  every  morning  and  help 
me  for  an  hour  or  twTo  in  my  shop?  There  isn't  any 
thing  to  do,  but  we  may  get  to  know  each  other  better." 
After  all,  she  might  as  well  show  a  fighting  spirit  and  see 
the  adventure  through  to  the  end. 


PATTY  AND  CORINNA  159 

Patty's  eyes  shone,  but  all  she  said  was,  "Oh,  I'd 
love  to!  It  is  so  beautiful  here." 

"Do  you  like  it?"  asked  Corinna,  and  wondered  how 
much  the  girl  really  saw.  Did  she  have  the  eyes  and 
the  soul  to  see  and  feel  beauty?  "I  have  some  good 
things  at  home.  You  must  come  out  there." 

"If  you'll  only  let  me  sit  and  watch  you!"  exclaimed 
Patty  fervently 

"As  long  as  you  like."  A  smile  crossed  Corinna's 
lips,  as  she  imagined  those  large  bright  eyes,  like  stars 
in  a  spring  twilight,  shining  on  her  hour  after  hour. 
How  could  she  possibly  endure  their  unfaltering  can 
dour?  How  could  she  adjust  her  life  to  their  adoring 
regard?  "How  long  has  your  mother  been  dead, 
Patty?"  she  asked  suddenly.  "Do  you  know — of 
course  you  don't — scarcely  anybody  has  ever  heard  it — 
that  I  had  a  child  once,  a  little  girl,  and  she  lived  only 
one  day." 

"And  she  might  have  been  like  you,"  was  all  Patty 
said,  but  Corinna  understood. 

"Do  you  remember  your  mother,  dear?" 

"Only  a  little,"  answered  Patty,  and  then  she  told  of 
the  spangled  skirt  and  the  silver  wand  with  the  star  on 
the  end  of  it.  "That  is  all  I  can  remember." 

She  rose  with  a  shy  movement  and  held  out  her  hand. 
"Then  I  may  come  to-morrow?" 

"Every  day  if  you  will,  and  most  of  all  on  the  days 
when  you  need  a  friend."  Bending  her  head,  she 
kissed  the  girl  lightly  on  the  cheek.  "Do  you  like  my 
cousin  Stephen?"  she  asked  suddenly. 

A  look  of  scorn  came  into  Patty's  eyes.  "He  is  so 
superior,"  she  answered,  with  a  gesture  of  complete 
indifference.  "I  don't  like  superior  persons." 


160  ONE  MAN  IN  HIS  TIME 

"Ah,"  thought  Corinna,  watching  her  closely,  "she 
is  really  interested,  poor  child ! " 

After  this  the  girl  went  out  into  a  changed  world — 
into  a  world  which  had  become,  as  if  by  a  miracle,  less 
impersonal  and  unfriendly.  The  amber  light  of  the 
sunset  seemed  to  envelop  her  softly  as  if  she  were  sur 
rounded  by  happiness.  It  was  like  first  love  without 
its  troubled  suspense,  this  new  wonderful  feeling!  It 
was  like  a  religious  awakening  without  the  sense  of  sin 
that  she  associated  with  her  early  conversion.  Noth 
ing,  she  felt,  could  ever  be  so  beautiful  again !  Nothing 
could  ever  mean  so  much  to  her  in  the  rest  of  life! 
In  one  moment,  almost  by  magic,  she  had  learned 
her  first  lesson  in  discrimination,  in  the  relative 
values  of  experience;  she  had  attained  her  first  clear 
perception  of  the  difference  between  the  things  that 
mattered  a  little  and  the  things  that  mattered 
profoundly. 

The  every-day  world  had  faded  from  her  so  com 
pletely  that  it  seemed  a  natural  incident — it  caused  her 
scarcely  a  start  of  surprise — when  she  met  Stephen 
Culpeper  under  the  Washington  monument.  He  had 
evidently  just  left  his  office,  for  there  was  a  bulky 
package  of  papers  in  his  hand;  and  he  greeted  her  as  if 
it  were  the  merest  accident  that  had  taken  him  through 
the  Square.  As  a  matter  of  fact  it  was  less  of  an  acci 
dent  than  he  made  it  appear,  for  he  had  declined  to  go 
home  in  the  Judge's  car  because  of  some  vague  hope 
that  by  walking  he  might  meet  either  Patty  or  Gideon 
Vetch.  Since  the  evening  of  the  Berkeley s'  dinner  the 
young  man's  interest  had  shifted  inexplicably  from 
Patty  to  her  father. 

"You  looked  so  much  like  Mr.  Benham  a  little  way 


PATTY  AND  CORINNA  161 

off,"  said  Patty,  as  he  turned  to  walk  back  with  her, 
"that  I  might  have  mistaken  you  for  him." 

"If  you  only  knew  it,"  he  replied,  laughing,  "you  have 
paid  me  the  highest  compliment  of  my  life." 

She  blushed.     "I  didn't  mean  it  as  a  compliment." 

"That  makes  it  all  the  better.  But  don't  you  like 
Benham?" 

Patty  pondered  the  question.  "I  can't  get  near 
enough  to  him  either  to  like  or  dislike  him.  He  is  very 
good  looking." 

"He  is  more  than  good  looking.     He  is  magnificent." 

"You  think  a  great  deal  of  him?" 

"I  couldn't  think  more,"  he  responded  with  young 
enthusiasm.  "Every  one  feels  that  way  about  him. 
He  stands  for — well,  for  everything  that  one  would  like 
to  be." 

"I've  heard  of  him,  of  course,"  said  the  girl  slowly. 
"Father  has  been  fighting  him  ever  since  he  went  into 
politics;  but  I  never  saw  Mr.  Benhem  close  enough 
to  speak  to  him  until  the  other  evening."  She  raised 
her  black  lashes  and  looked  straight  at  Stephen  with  her 
challenging  glance.  "All  the  men  seemed  so  serious, 
except  you." 

He  laughed  and  flushed  slightly.  "And  I  did 
not?" 

Though  her  manner  could  not  have  been  more  in 
different,  there  was  an  undercurrent  of  feeling  in  her 
voice,  as  if  she  meant  something  more  than  she  had  put 
into  words.  He  might  take  it  as  he  chose,  lightly  or 
seriously,  her  look  implied — and  it  was,  he  admitted,  a 
thrilling  look  from  such  eyes  as  hers. 

"You  are  nearer  my  age,"  she  rejoined,  "though  you 
do  seem  so  old  sometimes." 


162  ONE  MAN  IN  HIS  TIME 

A  depressing  dampness  fell  on  his  mood.  "Do  I 
seem  old  to  you?  I  am  only  twenty-six." 

Her  inquiring  eyebrows  were  raised  in  mockery. 
"That  is  too  old  to  play,  isn't  it?" 

"Well,  I  might  try,"  he  answered,  and  added  curi 
ously,  "I  wonder  whom  you  find  to  play  with?  Not 
your  father?  " 

"Oh,  no,  not  Father.  He  is  as  serious  as  Mr.  Ben- 
ham,  only  he  laughs  a  great  deal  more.  Father  jokes  all 
the  time,  but  there  is  something  underneath  that  isn't 
a  joke  at  all." 

"I  should  like  to  talk  to  your  father.  I  want  to  find 
out,  if  I  can,  what  he  really  believes." 

"You  won't  find  out  that,"  said  Patty,  "by  talking  to 
him." 

"You  mean  he  will  not  tell  me?" 

"Oh,  he  may  tell  you;  but  you  won't  know  it.  Half 
the  time  when  he  is  telling  the  truth,  it  sounds  like  a 
joke,  and  that  keeps  people  from  believing  him.  He 
says  the  best  way  to  keep  a  secret  is  to  shout  it  from  the 
housetops;  and  I've  heard  him  say  things  straight  out 
that  sounded  so  far  fetched  nobody  would  think  he  was 
in  earnest.  I  was  the  only  person  who  knew  that  he 
was  speaking  the  truth.  They  call  that  a  'method',  the 
politicians.  They  used  to  like  it  before  he  was  elected; 
but  now  it  makes  them  restless.  They  complain  that 
they  can't  do  anything  with  him." 

"That,"  remarked  Stephen,  as  she  paused,  "appears 
to  be  the  chronic  complaint  of  politicians." 

"Does  it?  Well,  Mr.  Gershom  is  always  saying  now 
that  Father  can't  be  depended  on.  It  was  much  more 
peaceable,"  she  concluded  with  artless  confidence, 
"when  he  let  them  manage  him.  Now  there  are  dis- 


PATTY  AND  CORINNA  163 

cussions  and  disagreements  all  the  time.  It  all  seems 
to  be  about  what  they  think  people  want.  Have  you 
any  idea  what  they  want?" 

"Does  anybody  know  what  they  want — except  when 
they  want  money?" 

"Well,  some  of  them  would  like  Father  to  go  to  the 
Senate,"  she  returned  naively,  "and  some  of  them 
wouldn't.  Do  you  think  that  Mr.  Benham  would  be 
better  in  the  Senate?" 

"I  think  so,  of  course.  But  you  mustn't  judge,  you 
know,  by  what  my  thoughts  happen  to  be." 

"I'm  not  judging.  I  hate  politics.  I  always  have. 
I  want  to  get  as  far  away  from  them  as  I  can." 

He  looked  at  her  intently.  "And  where  would  you 
like  to  go?" 

"Into  the  movies."  Her  eyes  sparkled  at  the 
thought.  "At  least  I  wanted  to  go  into  the  movies 
until  I  saw  Mrs.  Page  this  afternoon." 

"Mrs.  Kent  Page?"  he  asked  in  astonishment.  "My 
Cousin  Corinna?" 

"Yes,  in  the  old  print  shop.     Isn't  she  adorable?" 

He  smiled  at  her  fervour.  "I  have  always  found  her 
so.  But  what  has  she  to  do  with  your  change  of 
ambition?" 

"Oh,  nothing,  except  that  she  is  lovelier  than  any 
actress  I  ever  saw." 

They  had  reached  the  house,  and  while  they  ascended 
the  steps,  the  sound  of  the  Governor's  voice,  raised  in 
vehement  protest,  floated  to  them  through  the  half -open 
door. 

"He  must  be  talking  to  Julius  Gershom,"  whispered 
Patty.  "It  is  always  like  that." 

"I  don't  care  a  damn  for  the  whole  bunch  of  you," 


164  ONE  MAN  IN  HIS  TIME 

said  Vetch  suddenly.  "You  can  go  and  tell  that  to  the 
crowd ! " 

"Well,  I'll  come  back  again  after  I've  told  them," 
Gershom  replied  in  an  insolent  tone;  and  the  next  mo 
ment  the  door  swung  back  and  he  appeared  on  the 
threshold. 

At  sight  of  Patty  and  Stephen  he  attempted  to 
cover  his  embarrassment  with  a  jest.  "Your  father 
and  I  were  having  one  of  our  little  arguments  about 
a  Ladies'  Aid  Society,"  he  said.  "He  is  beginning  to 
kick  against  too  much  ice  cream." 

"Well,  if  you  argue  as  loud  as  that,"  replied  the  girl 
with  imperturbable  coolness,  "it  won't  be  necessary 
to  go  and  tell  it  to  the  crowd." 

In  an  instant  she  had  changed  from  the  sparkling 
elusive  creature  Stephen  had  known  into  a  woman  of 
authority  and  composure.  What  an  eternal  enigma 
was  the  feminine  mind!  He  had  flattered  himself  that 
he  had  reached  the  end  of  her  superficial  attractions; 
and  in  a  minute,  by  some  startling  metamorphosis,  she 
was  changed  from  a  being  of  transparent  shallows  into 
the  immemorial  riddle  of  sex.  She  might  be  anything, 
or  everything,  except  the  ingenuous  girl  of  the  moment 
before. 

"We  must  learn  to  lower  our  voices,"  said  the  Gover 
nor  in  a  laughing  tone.  His  anger,  if  it  were  anger, 
had  blown  over  him  like  a  summer  storm,  and  the  clear 
blue  of  his  glance  was  as  winning  as  ever.  "I've  been 
looking  into  the  matter  of  that  appointment  Judge 
Page  asked  me  about,"  he  added,  "and  I  think  I  may 
see  my  way  to  oblige  him." 

"If  you  are  free  for  half  an  hour  I'd  like  to  have  the 
talk  we  spoke  of  the  other  day,"  answered  Stephen. 


PATTY  AND  CORINNA  165 

"Oh,  I'm  free  except  for  Darrow.  You  won't  mind 
Darrow." 

He  turned  toward  the  library  on  the  left  of  the  hall; 
and  as  Stephen  entered  the  room,  after  a  gay  and 
friendly  smile  in  Patty's  direction,  he  told  himself  that 
the  man  promised  to  be  more  interesting  than  any  girl 
he  had  ever  known. 


CHAPTER  XI 

THE  OLD  WALLS  AND  THE  RISING  TIDE 

A  TALL  old  man  was  standing  by  the  window  in  the 
library,  and  as  he  turned  his  face  away  from  the  light  of 
the  sunset,  Stephen  had  a  vague  impression  that  he  had 
seen  him  before — not  in  actual  life  but  in  some  half- 
forgotten  picture  or  statue.  The  Governor's  visitor 
was  evidently  a  carpenter,  with  a  tall  erect  figure  and  a 
face  which  had  in  it  a  dignity  that  belonged  less  to  an 
individual  than  to  an  era.  Beneath  his  abundant  white 
hair,  his  large  brown  eyes  still  shone  with  the  ardour 
of  a  convert  or  a  disciple,  and  his  blanched,  strongly 
marked  features  had  the  aristocratic  distinction  and 
serenity  that  are  found  in  the  faces  of  the  old  who  have 
lived  in  communion  either  with  profound  ideas  or  with 
the  simple  elemental  forces  of  sky  and  sea.  In  spite  of 
his  gnarled  hands  and  the  sawdust  that  had  lodged  in 
the  frayed  creases  of  his  clothes,  he  was  in  his  way, 
Stephen  realized,  as  great  a  gentleman  and  as  typical 
a  Virginian  as  Judge  Horatio  Lancaster  Page.  Both 
men  were  the  descendants  of  a  privileged  order;  both 
were  inheritors  of  a  formal  and  authentic  tradition. 

"This  is  Mr.  Darrow,"  said  Vetch  in  a  voice  which 
contained  a  note  of  affectionate  deference.  "I  think 
he  knew  your  father,  Culpeper.  Didn't  you  tell  me, 
Darrow,  that  you  had  known  this  young  man's  father?  " 

"No,  sir,  I  only  said  I'd  worked  for  him,"  replied 
Darrow,  with  an  air  of  genial  irony  which  brought  the 

166 


OLD  WALLS  AND  THE  RISING  TIDE     167 

Judge  to  Stephen's  mind  again.  "That's  a  big  differ 
ence,  I  reckon.  I  did  some  repairs  a  few  years  ago  on  a 
row  of  houses  that  belonged  to  Mr.  Culpeper;  but  the 
business  was  all  arranged  by  the  agent." 

"That  was  part  of  the  estate,  I  suppose,"  explained 
Stephen.  "My  father  leaves  all  that  to  his  agent." 

"Yes,  I  thought  as  much,"  replied  Darrow  simply; 
and  after  shaking  hands  with  his  rough,  strong  clasp, 
he  sat  down  in  a  chair  by  the  window.  "They've  made 
a  lot  of  changes  inside  this  house,"  he  remarked. 
"Before  they  added  on  that  part  at  the  back  the 
dining-room  used  to  be  in  the  basement.  I  remember 
doing  some  work  down  there  when  I  was  a  young  man 
and  there  was  going  to  be  a  wedding." 

"Well,  that  long  room  is  very  little  use  to  me,"  re 
turned  Vetch.  "As  far  as  I  am  concerned  they  might 
have  left  the  house  as  it  was  built."  Then  turning 
abruptly  to  Stephen,  he  said  sharply:  "You  heard 
Gershom's  parting  shot  at  me,  didn't  you?"  There 
was  a  gleam  of  quizzical  humour  in  his  eyes,  and 
Stephen  found  himself  asking,  as  so  many  others  had 
asked  before  him,  "Is  the  man  serious,  or  is  he  making  a 
joke?  Does  he  wish  me  to  receive  this  as  a  confidence 
or  with  pretended  hilarity?" 

"Something  about  telling  the  crowd?"  he  answered. 
"Yes,  I  heard  it." 

"We  were  having  a  tussle,"  continued  Vetch  lightly. 
"The  fat's  in  the  fire  at  last." 

Stephen  laughed  drily.-  "Then  I  hope  you  will  keep 
it  there." 

"You  mean  you  would  like  an  explosion?" 

"I  mean  that  anything  that  could  clear  up  the  situ 
ation  would  be  welcome." 


168  ONE  MAN  IN  HIS  TIME 

At  this  Vetch  turned  to  Darrow  and  observed  whim 
sically :  "He  doesn't  seem  to  fancy  our  friend  Gershom." 

Darrow  looked  round  with  a  smile  from  the  window. 
"Well,  there  are  times  when  I  don't  myself,"  he  con 
fessed  in  his  deliberate  way.  "Of  all  bullies,  your 
political  bully  is  the  worst.  But  he  is  not  bad,  he  is 
just  foolish.  His  heart  is  set  on  this  general  strike,  and 
he  can't  set  his  heart  on  anything  without  losing  his 
head."  As  the  old  man  turned  his  face  back  to  the  sun 
set,  the  strong  bold  lines  of  his  profile  reminded  Stephen 
of  the  impassive  features  of  an  Egyptian  carving. 
Was  this  the  vague  resemblance  that  had  baffled  him 
ever  since  he  had  entered  the  room? 

"To  tell  the  truth,"  said  Stephen  frankly,  "the  fel 
low  strikes  me  as  particularly  obnoxious;  but  I  may  be 
prejudiced." 

"I  think  you  are,"  responded  Vetch.  "I  owe  Ger 
shom  a  great  deal.  He  was  useful  to  me  once,  and  I 
recognize  my  debt;  but  the  fact  remains,  that  I  don't 
owe  him  or  any  other  man  the  shirt  on  my  back!"  As 
he  met  Stephen's  glance  he  lowered  his  voice,  and  added 
in  a  tone  of  boyish  candour  that  was  very  winning  in 
spite  of  his  colloquial  speech:  "I  like  your  face,  and 
I'm  going  to  talk  frankly  to  you." 

"You  may,"  replied  the  young  man  impulsively.  It 
was  impossible  to  resist  the  human  quality,  the  confid 
ing  friendliness,  of  the  Governor's  manner.  The 
chances  were,  he  said  to  himself,  that  the  whole  thing 
was  mere  burlesque,  one  of  the  successful  sleight-of- 
hand  tricks  of  the  charlatan.  In  theory  he  was  still 
sceptical  of  Gideon  Vetch,  yet  he  had  already  sur 
rendered  every  faculty  except  that  impish  heretical 
spectator  that  dwelt  apart  in  his  brain. 


OLD  WALLS  AND  THE  RISING  TIDE     169 

"You  want  something  of  course, every  last  one  of  you, 
even  Darrow,"  resumed  Vetch,  with  his  charming  smile. 
"I  can  safely  assume  that  if  you  didn't  want  something, 
you  wouldn't  be  here.  Good  Lord,  if  a  man  so  much  as 
bows  to  me  in  the  street  without  asking  a  favour,  I  begin 
to  think  that  he  is  either  a  half-wit  or  a  ne'er-do-well." 

"At  least  I  want  nothing  for  myself,"  laughed 
Stephen,  a  trifle  sharply. 

"Nor  does  Darrow,  God  bless  him! — nor,  for  the 
matter  of  that,  does  Judge  Page.  I've  got  nothing  to 
give  you  that  you  would  take,  and  so  you  are  wishing 
Berkeley  on  me  for  the  penitentiary  board."  The 
gleam  of  humour  was  still  in  his  eyes  and  the  drollery 
in  his  expressive  voice. 

"We  are  seeking  this  for  the  penitentiary,  not  for  Mr. 
Berkeley.  He  is  the  man  you  need." 

"For  a  hobby,  yes.  That's  all  right,  of  course,  but, 
my  dear  young  sir,  you  can't  run  the  business  of  a  state 
as  a  hobby  any  more  than  you  can  administer  it  as  a 
philanthropy." 

"Perhaps.  But  can  you  administer  it  successfully 
without  philanthropy?" 

At  this  Darrow  turned  with  a  smile.  "Can't  you  see 
that  he  is  fooling  with  you?"  he  said.  "Prison  reform 
is  one  of  his  fads — that  and  the  rights  of  the  indigent 
aged  and  orphans  and  animals  and  any  other  mortal 
thing  that  has  to  live  on  what  he  calls  the  stones  of 
charity.  He  knows  why  you  came,  and  he  likes  you 
the  better  because  of  it." 

"Gershom  and  I  have  had  a  word  or  two  about  that 
board,"  resumed  Vetch;  and  as  he  stopped  to  strike  a 
match,  Stephen  noticed  that  the  cigar  he  held  was  of 
a  cheap  and  strong  brand.  "Between  the  Legis- 


170  ONE  MAN  IN  HIS  TIME 

lature  on  one  side  and  that  bunch  of  indefatigable 
lobbyists  on  the  other,  I  sha'n't  be  permitted  presently 
to  appoint  the  darkey  who  waits  on  my  table."  The 
cigar  was  lighted  now,  and  to  Stephen's  sensitive  nos 
trils  the  air  was  rapidly  becoming  too  heavy.  Oddly 
enough,  he  reflected,  nothing  had  "placed"  Vetch  so 
forcibly  as  the  brand  of  that  cigar. 

"That,"  observed  the  young  man  briefly,  "is  the 
penalty  of  political  office." 

"So  long  as  I  was  merely  a  dark  horse,"  said  Vetch, 
"I  was  afraid  to  pull  on  the  curb;  but  now  that  I've 
won  the  race,  they'll  find  that  I'm  my  own  master. 
Won't  you  smoke?" 

Stephen  shook  his  head.  "Not  now.  There  is 
always  the  next  race  to  be  considered,  I  suppose." 

The  Governor's  rugged,  rather  heavy  features 
hardened  suddenly  until  they  looked  as  if  they  were 
formed  of  some  more  durable  substance  than  flesh. 
Under  the  thick  sandy  hair  his  eyes  lost  their  blueness 
and  appeared  as  gray  as  Stephen  had  once  thought 
them.  ''Have  you  ever  heard,"  he  asked  with  biting 
sarcasm,  "that  I  was  easy  to  manage  and  that  that 
was  why  certain  people  put  me  in  office?" 

"Yes,  I've  heard  that."  As  the  young  man  replied, 
Darrow  turned  from  the  window  and  looked  at  him 
attentively. 

"And  may  I  ask  what  else  you  have  heard?"  in 
quired  Vetch. 

Stephen  laughed  and  coloured.  "I've  heard  that 
it  was  becoming  difficult  to  do  anything  with  you." 

"Because  I  have  the  people  behind  me?" 

"Well,  because  you  think  you  have  the  people  behind 
you." 


OLD  WALLS  AND  THE  RISING  TIDE     171 

Vetch  leaned  forward  with  a  confiding  movement,  and 
flicked  the  ashes  of  his  objectionable  cigar  on  the 
immaculate  sleeve  of  Stephen's  coat.  Yet,  even  in 
the  careless  gesture,  a  breath  of  freshness  and  health, 
of  mental  and  physical  cleanliness,  seemed  to  emanate 
like  an  invigorating  breeze  from  his  robust  spirit. 
"Of  course  I  admit,"  he  said  thoughtfully,  "that  we 
are  obliged  to  have  some  kind  of  party  organization 
to  begin  with.  There  must  be  method  and  policy 
and  all  sorts  of  team-pulling  and  log-rolling  until  you 
get  started.  That  kind  of  thing  is  useful  just  as  far 
as  it  helps  and  not  a  step  farther.  I  won  my  fight 
as  an  Independent — and,  by  George,  I'll  remain  an 
Independent!  I've  got  the  upper  hand  now.  I  am 
strong  enough  to  stand  alone.  If  any  party  on  earth 
thinks  it  can  manage  me — well,  I'll  show  it  that  I 
can  be  my  own  party!" 

Was  it  true,  what  they  said  of  him, — that  success 
had  already  gone  to  his  head,  that  the  best  way  to  get 
rid  of  him  was  to  give  him  a  political  rope  with  which  he 
might  hang  himself?  Or  was  there  some  solid  foun 
dation  of  fact  in  his  blustering  assumption  of  power? 
Was  he  actually  a  force  that  would  have  to  be  reckoned 
with  in  the  future?  From  a  mass  of  confused  im 
pressions  Stephen  could  gather  nothing  clearly  except 
his  inability  to  form  a  definite  opinion  of  the  man. 
On  the  one  side  was  the  weight  of  prejudice,  of  pre 
conceived  judgment;  and  on  the  other  he  could  place 
only  the  effect  of  a  personal  magnetism  which  was  as 
real  and  as  intangible  as  light  or  colour. 

"Do  you  think  that  is  possible?"  he  asked  scepti 
cally.  "In  a  democracy  like  ours  is  any  man  so  strong 
that  he  can  stand  alone?" 


172  ONE  MAN  IN  HIS  TIME 

"Well,  of  course  he  is  not  alone  as  long  as  he  has  the 
support  of  the  majority." 

"You  may  have  this  support — I  neither  affirm 
nor  deny  it — but  upon  what  does  it  rest?  "What  do 
you  offer  the  people  that  is  better  than  the  principles 
or  the  promises  of  the  old  parties?  I  heard  you  speak 
once,  but  you  did  not  answer  this  question — to  my 
mind  the  only  question  that  is  vital.  You  talked  a 
great  deal  about  humanizing  industry — a  vague  phrase 
which  might  mean  anything  or  nothing,  since  humanity 
covers  all  the  vices  as  well  as  all  the  virtues  of  the  race. 
Benham  could  use  that  phrase  as  oratorically  as  you 
do,  for  it  rolls  easily  off  the  tongue  and  commits  one 
to  nothing." 

Vetch's  face  lost  suddenly  its  rigid  gravity,  as  if  he 
had  suffered  a  rush  of  energy  to  the  brain.  His  eyes 
became  blue  again,  and  as  keen  as  the  blade  of  a  knife. 

"I  believe,  and  the  people  who  are  with  me  believe, 
that  I  can  make  something  out  of  the  muddle  if  I  am 
given  a  chance,"  he  replied.  "Oh,  I  know  that  the 
reactionaries  are  in  the  saddle  now — that  they  have 
been  ever  since  they  had  the  war  as  an  excuse  to 
mount!  But  I  know  also  that  you  can  no  more  drive 
out  by  law  the  spirit  of  liberalism  from  the  American 
mind  than  you  can  drive  out  nature  with  a  pitchfork. 
For  a  little  while  you  may  think  you  have  got  the 
better  of  it;  but  it  will  crop  out  in  spite  of  you.  Now, 
I  am  a  part  of  returning  nature,  of  the  inevitable  re 
bound  toward  the  spirit  of  liberalism.  In  the  thought 
of  the  people  who  voted  for  me,  I  stand  for  the  in 
destructible  common  sense  of  the  American  mind.  I 
am  one  of  the  first  signs  of  the  new  times." 

"And    you    believe    that    you    prove    this,"    asked 


OLD  WALLS  AND  THE  RISING  TIDE     173 

Stephen  frankly,  "by  turning  over  your  power  of 
appointment  to  a  group  of  self-interested  politicians? 
You  show  your  ability  to  govern  by  evading  the  first 
requirement  of  good  government — that  there  should 
be  honest  and  able  men  in  control  of  public  offices?" 

A  flicker  came  and  went  in  the  blue  eyes.  "I  told 
you  the  other  day,"  answered  Vetch  in  a  low  voice, 
"that  I  used  the  tools  at  my  command,  and  I  tell  you 
now  that  I  am  sometimes  forced  to  use  rotten  ones. 
People  say  that  I  am  an  opportunist ;  but  who  has  ever 
discovered  any  other  policy  that  deals  with  life  so  com 
pletely?  They  say  also  that  I  am  without  public 
conscience — another  name  for  opinions  that  have 
crystallized  into  prejudices.  The  truth  is  that  the 
end  for  which  I  work  seems  to  me  vastly  more  im 
portant  than  the  methods  I  use  or  the  instruments 
that  I  employ." 

It  was  the  familiar  chicanery  of  the  popular  leader, 
the  justification  of  expediency,  that  Stephen  had 
always  found  most  repugnant  as  a  political  theory;  and 
while  he  drew  back,  repelled  and  disgusted,  he  asked 
himself  if  the  national  conscience,  the  moral  integrity 
of  the  race,  was  hi  the  keeping  of  demagogues? 

"I  am  curious  to  know,"  he  remarked  after  a  mo 
ment,  "how  you  are  able  to  justify  the  sacrifice  of  what 
I  regard  as  common  honesty  in  public  affairs?" 

To  his  surprise,  instead  of  answering  directly,  Vetch 
put  a  personal  question.  "Then  you  think  I  am  not 
honest?  Darrow  wouldn't  agree  with  you." 

At  this  Darrow  turned  from  the  window.  "Per 
haps  he  doesn't  mean  what  we  do,"  he  said  quietly. 
"I've  seen  honest  men  that  I  knew  ought  to  have  been 
in  prison." 


174  ONE  MAN  IN  HIS  TIME 

"I  am  speaking  of  course  of  the  doctrines  you  advo 
cate,"  answered  Stephen.  "That  seems  to  me  to  be, 
in  the  jargon  of  the  reformer,  somewhat  unethical.  Can 
you,  I  question,  achieve  anything  important  enough 
to  compensate  for  what  you  sacrifice?" 

Darrow  turned  again  with  his  dry  laugh.  "You 
speak  as  if  public  honesty,  by  which  I  reckon  you  mean 
clean  elections  and  unsold  offices,  were  something  we 
had  actually  possessed,"  he  said. 

"Oh,  I  know  the  old  proceedings  were  bad  enough," 
replied  Stephen,  "but  I  am  trying  to  find  out  how  the 
Governor  expects  to  make  them  better.  You  under 
stand  that  I  am  trying  merely  to  see  your  point  of  view 
— to  get  at  the  roots  of  your  theory  of  government. 
What  you  tell  me  will  never  find  its  way  to  the  public." 

"I  realize  that,"  said  Vetch  gravely,  and  he  added 
with  a  quick  glance  at  Darrow:  "Do  you  think  if 
I  were  not  honest  that  I'd  talk  to  you  so  frankly?" 

Stephen  smiled.  "It  might  be.  The  political  coat 
has  many  colours.  I  don't  mean  to  be  rude,  you  know, 
but  one  good  turn  in  frankness  deserves  another." 

"I  like  you  the  better  for  that."  A  cluster  of 
fine  lines  appeared  at  the  corners  of  the  Governor's 
laughing  eyes.  "But,  once  for  all,  you  must  get  rid  of 
your  false  impressions  of  me,  and  see  me  as  a  fact,  not 
as  a  kind  of  social  scarecrow.  First  of  all,  you  think  I 
am  an  extremist — well,  I  am  not.  I  am  merely  a  man 
of  facts.  I  see  the  world  as  it  is  and  you  see  it  as  you 
wish  it  to  be — that  is  the  difference  between  us.  I 
have  lived  with  realities;  I  know  actual  conditions — 
and  you  know  only  what  you  have  been  told  or  im 
agined.  Oh,  I  admit  that  you  saw  an  edge  of  reality 
in  the  trenches;  but,  after  all,  life  in  the  trenches  was 


OLD  WALLS  AND  THE  RISING  TIDE     175 

as  abnormal  as  life  in  the  movies.  Each  represents 
an  extreme.  What  you  know  of  average  human  life, 
of  hunger  and  pain  and  labour,  could  be  learned  in  an 
academy  for  young  ladies.  Yet  you  imagine  that  it 
is  experience!  You  have  lived  so  long  in  your  lily- 
pond,  with  the  rushes  hemming  you  in,  that  when 
you  hear  all  the  frogs  croaking  on  the  same  note, 
you  think  complacently,  'that  is  the  voice  of  the 
people'.  Why,  I  tell  you,  man,  you  are  so  ignorant 
of  the  conditions  in  this  very  town,  that  Darrow  could 
take  you  out  and  show  you  things  that  would  make 
you  feel  like  Robinson  Crusoe!" 

Stephen  turned  eagerly  to  the  old  man  at  the  window. 
"I  am  ready  for  you,  Mr.  Darrow." 

Darrow  nodded  with  a  reluctant  assent.  "I've  got 
my  Ford  around  the  corner,"  he  answered.  "If  you 
would  like  to  go  up  town  with  me  I  can  show  you  a 
thing  or  two  that  might  interest  you." 

"You  mean  the  conditions  in  this  city?" 

"The  conditions  in  all  cities.  They  differ  only  in  the 
name  of  the  town." 

"He  will  show  you  a  little — just  a  little — of  what 
getting  back  to  peace  means,"  said  Vetch  earnestly. 
"By  next  winter  it  will  be  worse,  of  course,  but  it  has 
already  begun.  The  rate  of  wages  is  falling — for  wages 
always  fall  first — and  the  cost  of  living  is  still  as  high 
as  in  war  times.  Rents  are  going  up  every  day,  Dar 
row  can  tell  you  more  about  the  speculation  in  rents 
than  I  can,  and  the  housing  of  the  working-classes, 
both  white  and  coloured,  is  growing  worse.  We  shall 
soon  be  facing  the  most  serious  problem  of  the  system 
under  which  we  live,  the  problem  of  the  unemployed. 
Already  it  is  beginning.  Darrow  was  telling  me  just 


176  ONE  MAN  IN  HIS  TIME 

before  you  came  in  of  a  man  in  one  of  the  houses  where 
he  has  been  working — a  returned  soldier  too — who  has 
walked  the  streets  for  weeks  in  search  of  work.  He 
has  been  unable  to  pay  his  rent,  so  of  course  he  is 
obliged  to  move  somewhere,  if  he  can  find  a  place 
to  move  into.  Oh,  I  realize  perfectly  what  you  are 
going  to  say!  The  brief  prosperity  of  the  war  still 
envelops  the  labouring  man  in  your  mind;  and  you  are 
preparing  to  remind  me  of  the  lace  curtains  and  vic- 
trolas  of  yesterday.  Yes,  I  admit  that  lace  curtains 
and  victrolas  are  not  necessities.  It  was  a  case  where 
nature  cropped  out  in  the  wrong  spot.  Even  the  work 
ing-man  may  have  suppressed  desires,  you  see,  and 
lace  curtains  and  victrolas  may  stand  not  only  for  the 
improvidence  of  the  poor,  but  for  the  neurasthenic 
yearnings  of  the  rich.  Talk  about  the  economy  of 
Nature!  Why,  nothing  in  the  universe,  not  even  the 
civilization  of  man,  has  ever  equalled  her  indecent 
prodigality!" 

As  the  man's  words  poured  out  in  his  rich,  deep 
voice,  Stephen  stared  at  him  in  a  silence  which  reminded 
him  humorously  of  the  pause  in  church  before  the  ser 
mon  began.  Was  this  the  reason  of  Vetch's  influence 
and  authority — this  flow  of  ideas,  as  from  a  horn  of 
plenty,  that  left  the  listener  both  charmed  and  be 
wildered? 

"I  admit  it  all,"  rejoined  the  young  man,  "except 
that  you  have  discovered  the  remedy." 

The  Governor  laughed  and  settled  back  in  his  big 
leather-covered  chair.  "You  think  that  I  blow  my 
own  horn  too  loudly,"  he  continued,  "but,  after  all, 
who  knows  how  to  blow  it  half  so  well  as  I  do?  For 
the  same  reason  some  over-sensitive  nerve  of  yours 


OLD  WALLS  AND  THE  RISING  TIDE     177 

may  wince  at  my  behaviour  at  times,  my  lack  of  dignity 
or  reserve;  but  have  I  ever  lost  a  vote — I  put  it  to  you 
plainly — or  the  shadow  of  a  vote  by  an  occasional 
resort  to  spectacular  advertising?  It  pays  to  adver 
tise  in  politics,  we  all  know  that! — but  it  was  honest 
advertising  since  I  never  failed  to  deliver  the  goods. 
I  started  out  to  prove  my  strength  and  to  flay  my 
opponents,  and  you  tell  me,  you  group  of  black- 
coated  conservatives,  that  I  make  myself  ridiculous 
because  I  strike  an  attitude.  The  people  laughed — 
but,  by  George,  they  laughed  with  me!  Oh,  I  know 
you  think  that  I  am  wandering  from  my  point;  but  I 
haven't  forgotten  your  question,  and  I  am  going  to 
answer  it,  if  you  will  give  me  time.  You  ask  me  what 

I  believe -" 

"If  you  could  tell  me  in  few  words  and  plainly." 
"Well,  first  of  all,  I  make  no  pretence.  I  do  not 
promise  to  work  miracles.  I  do  not,  like  your  con 
ventional  candidates,  talk  in  platitudes.  I  do  not 
undertake  to  achieve  a  regeneration  of  politics  out 
of  unregenerate  human  nature.  As  long  as  we  have 
cherries  we  shall  have  blackbirds;  as  long  as  we  have 
politics  we  shall  have  politicians.  I  acknowledge  the 
good  and  the  bad,  and  all  that  I  promise  is  to  get  as 
good  results  as  I  can  out  of  the  mixture.  Definitely 
I  stand  for  a  progressive  reorganization  of  society — 
for  a  fairer  social  order  and  a  practical  system  of  co 
operative  industry,  the  only  logical  method  of  increasing 
production  without  reducing  the  labourer  to  the  old  dis 
organized  slavery.  I  believe  in  the  trite  formula  we 
workers  preach — in  the  eight-hour  day,  the  old  age  pen 
sion,  which  is  only  the  inevitable  step  from  the  mother's 
pension,  the  gradual  nationalization  of  mines  and 


178  ONE  MAN  IN  HIS  TIME 

railroads.  I  believe  in  these  things  which  are  the 
commonplace  of  to-morrow;  but  it  is  not  because  of  my 
beliefs  that  the  people  follow  me.  It  is  something 
bigger  than  all  this  that  catches  the  crowd.  What  the 
people  see  in  me  is  not  the  man  who  believes,  but  the 
man  who  acts.  I  stand  to  them  not  for  words — though 
you  and  Benham  think  I've  made  my  way  by  a  gift 
of  tongue — but  for  deeds — for  things  performed  as 
well  as  planned.  Other  men  can  tell  them  what  they 
want.  My  hold  over  them  is  that  they  feel  I  can  get 
them  what  they  want — a  very  big  difference !  Oh,  I  use 
words,  I  know,  like  the  rest.  I  have  read  a  few  books, 
and  I  can  talk  as  well  as  any  political  parrot  of  the 
lot  when  I  get  started.  But  the  words  I  use  are  living 
words,  if  you  notice  them.  I  talk  always  about  the 
things  that  I  can  do,  never  about  the  things  that  I  think. 
Well,  that  is  my  secret — my  pose,  if  you  prefer — to 
present  my  argument  to  the  crowd  as  an  act,  not  as  an 
idea.  There  are  plenty  of  imposing  statues  standing 
around.  What  they  see  in  me  is  a  human  being  like 
themselves,  one  who  wants  what  they  want,  and  who 
will  fight  to  the  last  ditch  to  get  it  for  them." 

It  was  plausible;  it  sounded  convincing  and  log 
ical;  and  yet,  even  while  Stephen  responded  to  the 
Governor's  personal  touch,  some  obstinate  fibre  of 
race  or  inflexible  bent  of  judgment,  refused  to  sur 
render.  Vetch  was  probably  sincere — it  was  fairer  to 
give  him  the  benefit  of  the  doubt — but  on  the  surface 
at  least  he  was  parading  a  spectacular  pose.  The  role 
of  the  Friend  of  the  People  has  seldom  been  absent 
from  the  drama  of  history. 

With  a  glance  at  the  window,  where  twilight  was 
falling,  Stephen  rose,  and  held  out  his  hand.  "I  shall 


OLD  WALLS  AND  THE  RISING  TIDE     179 

remember  your  frankness,"  he  said,  "the  next  time  I 
hear  you  speak.  That,  I  hope,  will  be  soon." 

"And  you  will  wait  until  then  to  be  converted?" 

"I  shall  wait  until  then  to  be  wholly  convinced." 

"Well,  Darrow  may  have  better  results.  You  go 
with  Darrow?" 

"If  he  will  take  me?"  The  deference  with  which 
the  old  man  had  inspired  the  Governor  showed  in 
Stephen's  manner.  "I  shall  be  grateful  for  a  lift  on 
the  way  home." 

Darrow  had  risen  also;  and  after  shaking  hands  with 
Vetch,  he  looked  back  at  the  younger  man  from  the 
doorway.  "I'll  have  my  Ford  round  here  in  five 
minutes.  Meet  me  at  the  nearest  gate." 

He  went  out  hurriedly;  and  as  Stephen  followed  him, 
after  the  delay  of  a  few  minutes,  he  found  himself  face 
to  face  with  Patty,  who  was  coming  from  "the  blue 
room"  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  hall. 

"I  hope  you  got  what  you  came  for,"  she  said  gaily. 

"I  came  for  nothing,"  he  retorted  lightly,  "and 
I'm  sure  I  got  it." 

"Well,  that  won't  matter  so  much  since  it  wasn't  for 
yourself,"  she  mocked.  "Nobody  ever  wants  anything 
for  himself  in  politics.  Father  could  tell  you  that." 

"He  told  me  a  good  many  things — but  not  that." 

"Did  he  tell  you,"  she  inquired  daringly,  "why  he 
is  falling  out  with  Julius  Gershom?" 

"Is  he  falling  out  with  him?" 

"Didn't  you  see  it — and  hear  it — when  you  came  in? " 

"I  suspected  as  much;  but  after  all  it  was  none  of  my 
business." 

"And  you  confine  your  curiosity  to  your  own  busi 
ness?" 


180  ONE  MAN  IN  HIS  TIME 

"Not  entirely,"  he  answered,  and  wondered  if  she 
were  experimenting  with  the  letter  "C".  "For  in 
stance  I  am  curious  about  you." 

Her  eyes  challenged  him  with  their  old  defiance. 
"And  I  am  certainly  not  your  business." 

"I  admit  that  you  are  not — but  that  does  not  de 
crease  my  curiosity." 

For  a  moment  her  smile  grew  wistful.  "And  what, 
I  wonder,"  she  asked,  with  the  faintest  quiver  of  her 
cherry-coloured  lips,  "would  you  like  to  know?" 

"Oh,  everything!"  he  replied  unhesitatingly.  There 
was  no  longer  in  his  mind  the  slightest  wish  to  avoid 
the  approaching  flirtation.  On  the  contrary,  he  felt 
he  should  welcome  it,  if  she  would  only  continue  to 
look  like  this.  She  was  not  beautiful — yet  he  real 
ized  that  she  did  not  need  beauty  when  she  could 
play  so  easily  with  a  look  or  a  smile  on  the  heart 
strings.  A  rush  of  tenderness  overwhelmed  his  reserve 
at  the  very  instant  when  her  lashes  trembled  and 
drooped,  and  she  murmured  in  a  whisper  that  en 
chanted  him:  "Oh,  but  everything  is  too  little." 
Though  it  was  only  the  old  lure  of  youth  and  sex,  he 
felt  that  it  was  as  divinely  fresh  and  wonderful  as 
first  love. 

"Is  it  too  little?"  he  asked,  and  his  voice  sounded  so 
far  off  that  it  was  faint  in  his  ears. 

She  raised  her  lashes  and  gave  him  a  glance  charged 
with  meaning.  "That  depends,"  she  answered,  and 
suddenly,  without  warning,  she  passed  to  the  lightest 
and  gayest  of  tones.  "Everything  depends  on  some 
thing  else,  doesn't  it?  Now  Father  is  coming  out,  and 
I  must  run  upstairs  and  dress." 

It  was  a  dismissal,  he  knew,  and  yet  he  hesitated. 


OLD  WALLS  AND  THE  RISING  TIDE     181 

"May  I  come  again  soon?"  he  asked,  and  held  out  his 
hand. 

To  his  surprise  Patty  greeted  his  question  with  a 
laugh.  "Do  you  really  like  politics  so  much?"  she  re 
torted;  and  fled  lightly  toward  the  staircase  beyond 
the  library. 


CHAPTER  XII 

A  JOURNEY  INTO  MEAN  STREETS 

D  ARROW'S  little  car  was  waiting  before  the  entrance; 
and  as  soon  as  Stephen  had  taken  his  place  by  the  old 
man's  side,  they  shot  forward  into  the  smoky  twilight. 
A  policeman,  standing  in  the  circle  of  electric  light  at 
the  corner,  held  up  a  warning  hand;  and  then,  as  he 
recognized  Darrow,  he  nodded  with  a  smile,  and  there 
stole  into  his  face  the  look  of  deference  which  Stephen 
had  seen  in  the  Governor's  eyes.  Glancing  up  at  the 
sombre  ruggedness  of  the  profile  beside  him,  the 
younger  man  asked  himself  curiously  from  what  source 
of  character  or  circumstance  this  old  man  had  derived 
his  strange  impressiveness  and  his  authority  over  men. 
With  his  gaunt  length,  his  wide  curving  nostrils,  his 
thick  majestic  lips,  he  looked,  as  Stephen  had  first 
seen  him,  a  rock-hewn  Pharaoh  of  a  man.  An  un 
usual  type  to  survive  in  modern  America — repub 
lican  and  imperial!  Did  he  represent,  this  carpenter 
who  was  also  a  politician,  the  political  despotism  of 
the  worker — the  crook  and  scourge  of  the  labourer's 
power? 

Suddenly,  while  he  wondered,  Darrow  turned  toward 
him.  "What  do  you  think  of  the  Governor?" 

"I  hardly  know,"  answered  Stephen  thoughtfully. 
"It  is  too  soon  to  ask;  but  I  think  he  is  honest." 

"He  is  more  than  honest,"  rejoined  the  other  quietly. 
"He  is  human.  He  understands.  He  belongs  to  us." 

182 


A  JOURNEY  INTO  MEAN  STREETS     183 

"Belongs?"  Stephen  repeated  the  word  with  a 
note  of  interrogation. 

Very  slowly  the  old  man  answered.  "I  mean  that 
he  is  more  than  anything  that  he  says  or  thinks.  He 
is  bigger  than  his  message." 

"I  suppose  he  stands  for  a  great  deal?" 

"A  man  stands  only  for  what  he  is,  not  for  an  inch 
more,  not  for  an  inch  less.  The  trouble  with  all  the 
leaders  we've  had  in  the  past  was  that  their  thought 
outstripped  their  characters.  They  believed  more 
than  they  were  and  they  broke  down  under  it.  I'm 
an  old  man  now.  I've  watched  them  come  and  go." 

"You  think  that  Vetch  is  a  great  leader?" 

"I  think  he  is  a  great  leader,  but  I  don't  mean  that 
I  think  he  will  ever  lead  us  anywhere." 

"You  feel  that  he  is  losing  his  grip  on  the  crowd?" 

Up  from  Main  Street  the  workers  were  pouring  out 
of  the  factories ;  and  while  they  moved  in  a  dark  stream 
through  the  light  and  shadow  on  the  pavement,  the 
faces  flowed  past  Stephen  with  a  pallid  intensity  which 
made  him  think  of  dead  flowers  drifting  on  a  river.  In 
all  those  faces  how  little  life  there  seemed,  how  little 
individuality  and  animation! 

"When  I  was  a  small  kid  I  used  to  live  by  the  sea 
shore,"  said  the  old  man  presently  in  his  dry,  emphatic 
tones.  "Many  is  the  time  I've  stood  and  watched 
the  tide  coming  in,  and  I  never  once  saw  it  come  in 
that  it  didn't  go  out  again." 

"Then  you  believe  that  the  tide  is  turning  against 
Vetch?" 

For  a  minute,  while  they  sped  on  in  the  obscurity  of 
a  side  street,  Darrow  meditated. 

"No,  sir,  I  ain't  saying  that  much — not  yet.     But 


184  ONE  MAN  IN  HIS  TIME 

the  way  I  calculate  is  something  like  this.  Vetch  came 
in  on  a  wave  of  popular  emotion,  and  a  wave  of  popular 
emotion  is  just  about  like  the  tide  of  the  sea.  It  may 
rise  a  certain  distance,  but  it  can't  stand  still,  and  it 
can't  go  any  farther.  It's  obliged  to  turn;  and  when 
it  turns,  it's  pretty  sure  to  bring  back  a  good  deal  that 
it  carried  with  it.  A  crowd  impulse — as  they  call  it 
in  the  pulpit  and  on  the  platform — is  a  dangerous 
thing.  It's  dangerous  because  you  can't  count  on  it." 

"It  looks  to  me  as  if  Vetch  counted  upon  it  a  little 
too  much." 

"  That's  his  nature.  He  was  born  on  the  sunny  side 
of  the  street.  He  thinks  because  he  sees  the  way  to 
help  people  that  they  want  to  be  helped.  I've  been 
mixed  up  in  politics  now  for  fifty  years,  and  in  the 
labour  movement,  as  they  say,  ever  since  it  began  to 
move  in  the  South — and  I've  found  out  that  people 
don't  really  want  to  be  helped — they  want  to  be  fooled. 
Vetch  offers  'em  facts,  and  all  the  time  it  ain't  facts 
they're  wanting,  but  names." 

"I  see,"  assented  Stephen.  "Names  that  they  can 
repeat  over  and  over  until  they  get  at  last  to  believe 
that  they  are  things.  Long  reverberating  names  like 
Democratic  or  Republican " 

Darrow  laughed  grimly.  "That's  right,  sir,  that's 
the  way  I've  worked  it  out  in  my  mind.  The  crowd 
will  come  a  little  way  after  a  fact;  but  in  the  end  it 
gets  tired  because  the  fact  won't  work  magic,  like 
that  conjure-stuff  of  the  darkeys,  and  then  it  turns 
and  goes  back  to  the  old  names  that  mean  nothing. 
Only  when  a  crowd  moves  all  together  it's  dangerous 
because  it's  like  the  flood-tide  and  ebb-tide  of  the  sea." 

"And  the  most  irritating  part  of  it,"  said  Stephen, 


A  JOURNEY  INTO  MEAN  STREETS     185 

with  an  insight  which  had  sometimes  visited  him  hi 
the  trenches,  "is  that  it  gets  what  it  deserves  because 
it  can  always  have  whatever  it  wants — even  the  truth 
and  honest  government." 

They  were  passing  rows  of  narrow  old-fashioned 
tenement-houses,  standing,  like  crumbling  walls  of 
red  brick,  behind  sagging  wooden  fences;  and  suddenly, 
while  Stephen's  eyes  were  on  the  lights  that  came  and 
went  so  fitfully  in  the  basement  dining-rooms,  Darrow 
stopped  the  car  in  the  gutter  of  cobblestones,  and 
motioned  in  silence  toward  the  pavement.  As  Stephen 
got  out,  he  glanced  vaguely  round  him  at  the  strange 
neighbourhood. 

"Where  are  we?" 

"North  of  Marshall  Street.  A  quarter  which  was 
once  very  prosperous;  but  that  was  before  your  day. 
This  is  one  of  several  rows  of  old  houses,  well-built  in 
their  time,  better  built,  indeed,  than  any  houses  we're 
putting  up  now;  but  their  day  is  over.  The  cost  of 
repairing  them  would  be  so  great  that  the  agent  is 
deliberately  letting  the  property  run  down  in  the  hope 
that  this  part  of  the  street  will  soon  be  turned  over 
to  negroes.  The  negroes  are  so  crowded  in  their 
quarter  that  they  are  obliged  to  expand,  and  when  they 
do,  this  investment  will  yield  a  still  higher  interest. 
Coloured  tenants  stand  crowding  better  than  white 
ones,  and  they  will  pay  a  better  rent  for  worse  housing. 
As  it  is  the  rent  of  these  houses  has  doubled  since  the 
beginning  of  the  war." 

"Good  God!"  said  Stephen.     "Do  we  stop  here?" 

"I  want  you  to  see  Canning,  the  man  the  Governor 
told  you  about.  He  can't  pay  his  rent,  which  was  raised 
last  Saturday,  and  the  family  is  moving  to-morrow." 


186  ONE  MAN  IN  HIS  TIME 

"He  ought  to  be  paid  for  living  here.  Where  will 
he  go?" 

"Oh,  people  can  always  find  a  worse  place,  if  they 
look  long  enough.  Canning  was  in  the  war,  by  the  way. 
He's  got  some  nervous  trouble — not  crazy  enough  to 
be  taken  care  of — just  on  edge  and  unstrung.  The 
war  used  him  up,  I  reckon,  and  anxiety  and  under 
nourishment  used  up  his  wife  and  children.  It  all 
seems  to  have  come  out  in  the  baby — queerest  little 
kid  you  ever  saw — born  about  a  year  ago.  Mighty 
funny — ain't  it? — the  way  we  let  children  just  a  few 
squares  away  from  us  grow  up  pinched,  half -starved, 
undersized,  uneducated,  and  as  little  moral  as  the 
gutters  can  make  'em,  and  all  the  time  we're  parading 
and  begging  and  even  collecting  the  pennies  out  of 
orphan  asylums,  for  the  sake  of  the  children  on  the 
other  side  of  the  world.  But  it's  a  queer  thing,  charity, 
however  you  happen  to  look  at  it.  My  father  used  to 
say — and  he  had  as  much  sense  as  any  man  I  ever 
met — that  charity  is  the  greatest  traveller  under  the 
sun;  and  even  if  it  begins  at  home  it  ain't  ever  content 
to  stop  there  over  night." 

Standing  there  in  the  dim  street,  before  the  silent 
rows  of  bleak  houses  with  their  tattered  window- 
shades  and  their  fitful  lights,  Stephen  stared  wonder- 
ingly  at  the  gaunt  shape  of  the  man  before  him.  For 
the  first  time  he  was  brought  face  to  face  with  the  other 
half  of  his  world,  with  the  half  of  the  world  where 
poverty  and  toil  are  stark  realities.  This  was  the 
way  men  like  Darrow  were  thinking,  men  perhaps 
like  Gideon  Vetch!  These  men  saw  poverty  not  as  a 
sentimental  term,  but  as  a  human  experience.  They 
knew,  while  he  and  his  kind  only  imagined.  With  a 


A  JOURNEY  INTO  MEAN  STREETS     187 

sensation  as  acute  as  physical  nausea,  a  sensation 
that  the  thought  of  the  Germans  used  to  bring  when  he 
was  in  the  trenches,  there  swept  over  him  a  memory 
of  the  social  hysteria  which  had  followed,  like  a  mental 
pestilence  or  famine,  in  the  track  of  the  war.  The 
moral  platitudes,  the  sentimental  philanthropy,  and  the 
hypocritical  command  of  conscience  to  put  all  the 
world,  except  our  own  cellars,  in  order,  where  were 
these  impulses  now  in  a  time  which  had  gone  mad  with 
the  hatred  of  work  and  the  craving  for  pleasure?  Yet 
he  had  once  thought  that  he  was  returning  to  a  world 
which  could  be  rebuilt  on  a  foundation  of  justice, 
and  it  was  this  lost  belief,  he  knew,  which  had  made 
him  bitter  in  spirit  and  unfair  in  judgment. 

The  gate  swung  back  with  a  grating  noise,  and  they 
entered  the  yard,  and  walked  over  scattered  papers  and 
empty  bottles  to  the  narrow  flight  of  brick  steps,  which 
led  from  the  ground  to  the  area  in  front  of  the  base 
ment  dining-room.  As  Stephen  descended  by  the 
light  from  the  dust-laden  window,  a  chill  dampness 
rose  like  a  fog  from  the  earth  below  and  filled  his 
nostrils  and  mouth  and  throat — a  dampness  which 
choked  him  like  the  effluvium  of  poverty.  Glancing 
in  from  the  area  a  moment  later,  he  saw  a  scantily 
furnished  room,  heated  by  an  open  stove  and  lighted 
by  a  single  jet  of  gas,  which  flickered  in  a  thin  greenish 
flame.  In  the  centre  of  the  room  a  pine  table,  without 
a  cloth,  was  laid  for  supper,  and  three  small  children, 
in  chairs  drawn  close  together,  were  impatiently  drum 
ming  with  tin  spoons  on  the  wood.  A  haggard  woman, 
in  a  soiled  blue  gingham  dress,  was  bringing  a  pot  of 
coffee  from  the  adjoining  room;  and  in  one  corner,  on 
a  sofa  from  which  the  stuffing  sagged  in  bunches,  a  man 


188  ONE  MAN  IN  HIS  TIME 

sat  staring  vacantly  at  a  hole  in  the  rag  carpet.  Tied 
in  a  high  chair,  which  stood  apart  as  if  it  were  the 
pedestal  of  an  idol,  a  baby,  with  the  smooth  unlined 
face  not  of  an  infant,  but  of  a  philosopher,  was  mutely 
surveying  the  scene. 

More  than  anything  else  in  the  room,  more  even 
than  the  sodden  hopelessness  of  the  man's  expression, 
the  hopelessness  of  neurasthenia,  this  baby,  tied  with 
a  strip  of  gingham  in  his  high  chair,  arrested  and  held 
Stephen's  attention.  Very  pallid,  with  the  pallor  not 
of  flesh  but  of  an  ivory  image,  with  hair  as  thin  and 
white  as  the  hair  of  an  old  man,  and  eyes  that  were  as 
opaque  as  blue  marbles,  the  baby  sat  there,  with  its 
look  of  stoical  philosophy  and  superhuman  experience. 
And  this  look  said  as  plainly  as  if  the  tiny  mute  lips  had 
opened  and  spoken  aloud:  "I  am  tired  before  I  begin. 
I  am  old  before  I  begin.  I  am  ending  before  I  begin." 

Darrow  knocked  at  the  door,  and  the  woman  opened 
it  with  the  coffee-pot  still  in  her  hand. 

"So  you've  come  back,"  she  said  in  a  voice  that  was 
without  surprise  and  without  gratitude. 

"I  came  back  to  ask  what  you've  done  about  a 
place.  This  gentleman  is  with  me.  You  don't  mind 
his  stepping  inside  a  minute?" 

"Oh,  no,  I  don't  mind.  I  don't  mind  anything." 
She  drew  back  as  she  answered,  and  the  two  men 
entered  the  room  and  stood  gazing  at  the  stove  with 
the  look  of  embarrassment  which  the  sight  of  poverty 
brings  to  the  faces  of  the  well-to-do. 

"When  are  you  moving?"  asked  Darrow,  with 
drawing  his  gaze  from  the  glimmer  of  the  embers  in  the 
stove,  and  fixing  it  on  the  steam  that  issued  from  the 
coffee-pot. 


A  JOURNEY  INTO  MEAN  STREETS     189 

"In  the  morning.  We've  found  a  cheaper  place, 
though  with  rent  going  up  every  week,  it  looks  as  if 
we'd  soon  have  nowhere  worse  to  move  to,  unless  it's 
gaol  alley."  Her  tone  dripped  bitterness,  and  the 
lines  of  her  pale  lips  settled  into  an  expression  of  scornful 
resignation. 

Without  replying  to  her  words,  D arrow  nodded  in 
the  direction  of  the  young  man,  who  had  never  looked 
up,  but  sat  in  the  same  rigid  attitude,  with  his  vacant 
eyes  staring  at  the  hole  in  the  carpet. 

"Any  better?" 

"How  can  he  be  better,"  returned  the  woman  grimly, 
"when  all  he  does  is  to  walk  the  streets  until  he's  fit  to 
drop,  and  then  drag  himself  home  and  sit  there  like 
that  for  hours,  too  worn  out  even  to  lift  his  eyes  from 
the  floor.  This  is  the  last  coffee  I've  got.  I've  been 
saving  it  since  Christmas,  but  I  made  it  for  him  because 
he  seems  more  down  than  usual  to-night."  Then  a 
nervous  spasm  shook  her  thin  figure,  and  she  added  in  a 
fierce  whisper:  "He's  sick,  that's  the  matter  with 
him.  He  ain't  sick  enough  to  be  in  a  government 
hospital,  but  he'd  be  better  off  if  he  was.  Even  when 
he  gets  work  he  ain't  able  to  stick  to  it.  The  folks  that 
hire  him  don't  have  any  patience.  As  long  as  he  was 
over  yonder  in  France  it  looked  as  if  every  woman  in 
America  was  knitting  for  him;  and  now  since  he's  back 
here  he  can't  get  a  job  to  keep  him  and  the  children 
alive." 

"How  have  you  fed  the  children?" 

"On  what  I  could  get  cheapest.  You  see  how  sickly 
and  peaked  they  look,  and  it's  been  awful  damp  in  these 
rooms  sometimes.  The  doctor  says  he  ain't  sick;  it 
ain't  his  body,  it's  his  mind.  He  says  he's  had  a  kind 


190  ONE  MAN  IN  HIS  TIME 

of  horror  inside  of  him  ever  since  he  came  home.  He's 
turned  against  everything  he  used  to  do,  and  even 
everything  he  used  to  believe  in. " 

"That's  hell!"  exclaimed  Stephen  suddenly;  and  at 
her  surprised  glance,  he  added,  "I've  been  there  and  I 
know.  Nerves,  they  say,  but  just  as  real  as  your  skin." 
He  looked  away  from  her  to  the  man  on  the  sofa.  "To 
have  that,  and  be  in  poverty ! "  Turning  away  from  the 
father,  his  glance  met  the  calm  eyes  of  the  baby  fixed  on 
him  with  that  gaze  which  was  as  old  and  as  pitiless  as 
philosophy. 

"Ma,  may  I  help  myself?"  screamed  one  of  the 
children,  drumming  loudly  on  the  table.  "I'd  rather 
have  bread  and  molasses!"  cried  another;  and  "Oh, 
Ma,  when  we  move  to-morrow  will  you  let  me  take  the 
kitten  I  found?" 

"Well,  I've  talked  to  the  Governor,"  said  Darrow, 
in  his  level  voice  which  sounded  to  Stephen  so  un 
emotional,  "and  I  think  we  can  find  a  job  for  your 
husband." 

Suddenly  the  man  on  the  sofa  looked  up.  "I  voted 
against  him,"  he  whispered  angrily. 

Darrow  laughed  shortly.  "You  don't  know  the 
Governor  if  you  think  he'd  hold  that  against  you,"  he 
replied.  "But  for  that  little  weakness  of  his  he  might 
not  be  a  political  problem." 

"That's  the  way  he  goes  on,"  remarked  the  woman 
despairingly.  "Always  saying  things  straight  out  that 
other  people  would  keep  back.  He  don't  care  what 
happens,  that's  the  whole  truth  of  it.  He  don't  care 
about  anything  on  earth,  not  even  his  tobacco." 

"Life!"  thought  Stephen,  with  a  dull  pain  in  his 
heart.  "That's  what  life  is!"  And  the  old  familiar 


A  JOURNEY  INTO  MEAN  STREETS     191 

feeling  of  suffocation,  of  distaste  for  everything  that 
he  had  ever  felt  or  thought  or  believed,  smothered 
him  with  the  dryness  of  dust.  Going  quickly  over 
to  the  sofa,  he  laid  his  hand  on  the  man's  shoulder, 
and  spoke  in  a  high  ringing  voice  which  he  tried  to 
make  cheerful.  "It  will  pass,  old  fellow,"  he  said, 
and  could  have  laughed  aloud  at  the  insincerity  of 
his  tone.  "I  know  because  I've  been  there."  And  he 
added  cynically,  as  a  kind  of  sacrifice  on  the  altar  of 
truth:  "Everything  will  pass  if  you  only  wait  long 
enough." 

The  man  started  and  looked  up.  With  an  air  of 
surprise  he  glanced  round  the  dingy  room,  at  his  wife, 
at  the  whimpering  children,  at  the  dispassionate  baby 
enthroned  in  his  high  chair,  and  at  the  majestic  profile 
of  Darrow.  "It's  the  rottenness  of  the  whole  blooming 
show,"  he  said  doggedly.  "It  ain't  just  the  hole  I'm 
in.  I  could  put  up  with  that  if  it  wasn't  for  the  rot 
tenness  of  it  all." 

"I  know,"  replied  Stephen  quietly.  "There  are 
times  when  the  show  does  look  rotten,  but  we're  all  in 
it  together." 

Then,  because  he  felt  that  he  could  stand  it  no 
longer,  he  turned  abruptly,  and  went  out  into  the  dusk 
of  the  area.  In  a  few  minutes  Darrow  joined  him, 
and  in  silence  the  two  men  felt  their  way  up  the  brick 
steps  to  the  bare  ground  of  the  front  yard. 

"I  don't  know  what  I  ought  to  do,  but  I've  got  to  do 
something,"  said  Stephen,  when  he  had  opened  the 
gate  and  passed  through  to  the  pavement  where  the 
car  waited.  Lifting  his  sensitive  young  face,  he  stared 
up  at  the  row  of  decaying  tenements.  "What  places 
for  homes!" 


192  ONE  MAN  IN  HIS  TIME 

For  a  moment  Darrow  looked  at  him  without  speak 
ing;  and  then  he  answered  in  a  voice  which  sounded  as 
impersonal  as  the  distant  rumble  of  street  cars.  "I 
thought  you  might  be  interested  because  these  houses, 
these  and  the  other  rows  on  the  next  block  or  two,  are 
part  of  the  Culpeper  estate." 

"The  Culpeper  estate?"  repeated  Stephen  in  an  ex 
pressionless  tone;  and  raising  his  eyes  again  he  looked 
up  at  the  bleak  houses.  In  that  instant,  it  seemed  to 
him  that  he  was  seeing,  not  the  sharp  projection  of  the 
roofs  against  the  ashen  sky,  but  a  long  line  of  pleas 
ant  and  prosperous  generations.  Beyond  him  stood 
his  father,  beyond  his  father  stood  his  grandfather, 
beyond  the  tranquil  succession  of  his  grandfathers 
stood — what?  Civilization?  Humanity? 

"Do  you  mean,"  he  asked  quietly,  "that  we — our 
family — own  these  houses?" 

"The  whole  block,  and  the  next,  and  the  next.  It  is 
the  Culpeper  estate.  You've  never  seen  'em  before,  I 
reckon.  I  doubt  even  if  your  father  has  ever  seen  'em. 
The  agent  attends  to  all  this,  and  if  the  agent  didn't 
see  that  the  rents  were  as  high  as  people  would  pay, 
or  were  paying  in  the  next  places,  he  would  be  soon  out 
of  a  job.  I'm  not  blaming  him,  you  know.  I've  got  a 
son-in-law  who  is  a  real  estate  agent.  It's  just  one 
of  the  cases  where  it's  nobody's  fault,  and  everybody's." 

Without  replying,  Stephen  turned  away  and  got  into 
the  car.  He  felt  bruised  and  sick,  and  he  wanted  to 
be  alone,  to  think  things  out  by  himself  in  the  darkness. 
"This  is  only  one  instance,"  he  thought,  as  they  started 
down  the  dim  street  toward  the  white  blaze  of  the 
business  quarter  in  the  distance.  "Only  one  out  of 
millions!  In  every  city.  All  over  the  world  it  is  the 


A  JOURNEY  INTO  MEAN  STREETS     193 

same.  Wherever  there  is  wealth  it  casts  its  shadow  of 
poverty." 

"I  used  to  bother  about  it  too  when  I  was  young," 
said  the  old  man  at  his  side.  "I  used  to  feel,  I  reckon, 
pretty  near  as  bad  as  you  are  feeling  now,  but  it 
don't  last.  When  you  get  on  a  bit  you'll  sort  of  settle 
down  and  begin  to  work  it  out.  That's  life.  Yes, 
but  it  ain't  the  whole  of  life.  It  ain't  even  the  biggest 
part.  Those  folks  we've  been  to  see  have  had  their 
good  times  like  the  rest  of  us,  only  we  saw  'em  just  now 
when  they  were  in  the  midst  of  a  bad  time.  Life  ain't 
confined  to  a  ditch  any  more  than  it  is  to  what  Gideon 
calls  a  lily-pond.  Keep  your  balance,  that's  the  main 
thing.  Whatever  else  you  lose,  you  must  be  sure 
to  keep  your  balance,  or  you'll  be  in  danger  of  going 
overboard." 

"Do  you  mean  that  there  is  no  remedy  for  conditions 
like  this?" 

The  old  man  pondered  his  answer  so  long  that  Ste 
phen  thought  he  had  either  given  up  or  forgotten  the 
question. 

"The  only  remedy  I  have  ever  been  able  to  see  is 
to  work  not  on  conditions,  but  on  human  nature,"  he 
replied.  "Improve  human  nature,  and  then  you  will 
improve  the  conditions  in  which  it  lives.  Improve  the 
rich  as  well  as  the  poor.  Teach  'em  to  be  human  beings, 
not  machines,  to  one  another — that's  Gideon's  idea,  you 
know, — humanize — Christianize,  if  you  like  it  better 
— civilize.  It's  a  pretty  hopeless  problem — the  in 
dividual  case — charity  is  all  rotten  from  root  to  branch. 
If  you  could  see  the  harm  that's  been  done  by  mistaken 
charity!  Why,  look  at  my  friend,  Mrs.  Page,  now. 
She  tried  to  work  it  out  that  way,  and  what  came  of  it 


194  ONE  MAN  IN  HIS  TIME 

except  more  rottenness?    And  yet  until  the  State  looks 
after  the  unemployed,  there  is  obliged  to  be  charity." 

"Do  you  mean  Mrs.  Kent  Page?"  asked  Stephen  in 
surprise,  and  remembered  that  his  mother  had  once 
accused  Corinna  of  trying  to  "undermine  society." 

"She  is  one  of  my  best  friends,"  answered  the  old 
man,  with  mingled  pride  and  affection.  "I  go  to  see 
her  in  her  shop  every  now  and  then,  and  I  reckon  she 
values  my  advice  about  her  affairs  as  much  as  any 
body's.  Well,  when  she  came  home  from  Europe  she 
found  that  she  owned  a  row  of  tenements  like  this  one, 
and  her  agent  was  profiteering  in  rents  like  most  of  the 
others.  I  wish  you  could  have  seen  her  when  she  dis 
covered  it.  Splendid?  Well,  I  reckon  she's  the  most 
splendid  thing  this  old  world  has  ever  had  on  top  of  it! 
She  went  straight  to  work  and  had  those  houses  made 
into  modern  apartments — bathrooms,  steam  heat,  and 
back  yards  full  of  trees  and  grass  and  flowers,  just 
like  Monroe  Park,  only  better.  The  rent  wasn't 
raised  either!  She  put  that  back  just  where  it  was  be 
fore  the  war;  and  then  she  let  the  whole  row  to  the 
tenants  for  two  years.  You  never  saw  anything  like 
the  interest  she  took  in  that  speculation — you'd  have 
thought  to  hear  her  that  she  was  setting  out  to  bring 
what  the  preachers  call  the  social  millennium." 

"She  never  mentioned  it  to  me,"  said  Stephen,  with 
interest.  "How  did  it  turn  out?" 

Darrow  threw  back  his  great  head  with  a  laugh.  "I 
don't  reckon  she  did  mention  it,  bless  her!  It  don't 
bear  mentioning  even  now.  Why,  when  she  went 
back  last  fall  to  see  those  houses,  she  found  that  the 
tenants  had  all  moved  into  dirty  little  places  in  the 
alley,  and  were  letting  out  the  apartments,  at  five  times 


A  JOURNEY  INTO  MEAN  STREETS     195 

the  rent  they  paid,  to  other  tenants.  They  were  doing 
a  little  special  profiteering  of  their  own — and,  bless  your 
life,  there  wasn't  so  much  as  a  blade  of  grass  left  in 
the  yards,  even  the  trees  had  been  cut  down  and 
sold  for  wood.  And  you  say  she  never  mentioned  it?" 

"How  could  she?  But,  after  all,  I  suppose  the 
question  goes  deeper  than  that?" 

"The  question,"  replied  Darrow,  with  an  energy  that 
shook  the  little  car,  "goes  as  deep  as  hell!" 

They  were  driving  rapidly  up  Grace  Street;  and 
as  they  shot  past  the  club  on  the  corner,  Stephen 
noticed  the  serene  aristocratic  profile  of  Peyton 
at  one  of  the  brilliantly  lighted  windows.  A  little 
farther  on,  when  they  turned  into  Franklin  Street,  he 
saw  that  the  old  print  shop  was  in  darkness,  except  for 
the  lights  in  the  rooms  of  the  care-taker  and  the  lodgers 
in  the  upper  storey.  Corinna  had  gone  home,  he  sup 
posed,  and  he  wandered  idly  if  she  were  with  Benham? 
As  they  went  on  they  passed  the  house  of  the  Blairs, 
where  he  caught  a  glimpse  of  Margaret  on  the  porch, 
parting  from  the  handsome  young  clergyman.  The 
sight  stirred  him  strangely,  as  if  the  memory  of  his  dead 
life  had  been  awakened  by  a  scent  or  a  faded  flower  in  a 
book.  How  different  he  was  from  the  boy  Margaret 
had  known  in  that  primitive  period  which  people 
defined  as  "before  the  war"!  It  was  as  if  he  had 
belonged  then  to  some  primary  emotional  stratum  of 
life.  All  the  complex  forces,  the  play  and  interplay  of 
desire  and  repulsion,  of  energy  and  lassitude,  had  de 
veloped  in  the  last  two  or  three  years. 

On  either  side,  softly  shaded  lights  were  shining  from 
the  windows,  and  women,  in  rich  furs,  were  getting  out 
of  luxurious  cars.  It  was  the  world  that  Stephen  knew; 


196  ONE  MAN  IN  HIS  TIME 

life  moulded  in  sculptural  forms  and  encrusted  with  the 
delicate  patina  of  tradition.  Here  was  all  that  he  had 
once  loved;  yet  he  realized  suddenly,  with  a  sensation  of 
loneliness,  that  here,  not  in  the  mean  streets,  he  felt, 
as  Vetch  would  have  said,  "stranger  than  Robinson 
Crusoe."  Something  was  missing.  Something  was 
lost  that  he  could  never  recover.  Was  it  Vetch,  after 
all,  who  had  shown  him  the  way  out,  who  had  knocked 
a  hole  in  the  wall? 

When  Darrow  stopped  the  car  before  the  Culpeper 
gate,  Stephen  turned  and  held  out  his  hand.  "Thank 
you,"  he  said  simply.  "I  shall  see  you  again." 

Crossing  the  pavement  with  a  rapid  step,  he  entered 
the  gate  and  ran  up  the  steps  to  the  porch  between  the 
white  columns.  As  he  passed  into  the  richly  tempered 
glow  of  the  hall,  it  seemed  to  him  that  an  invisible  force, 
an  aroma  of  the  past,  drifted  out  of  the  old  house 
and  enveloped  him  like  the  sweetness  of  flowers.  He 
was  caught  again,  he  was  submerged,  in  the  spirit  of  race. 

A  little  later,  when  he  was  passing  his  mother's  door, 
he  glanced  in  and  saw  her  standing  before  the  mirror 
in  her  evening  gown  of  gray  silk,  with  the  foam-like 
ruffles  of  rose-point  on  her  bosom  and  at  her  elbows, 
which  were  still  round  and  young  looking. 

Catching  his  reflection  in  the  glass,  she  called  out  in 
her  crisp  tones,  "My  dear  boy,  where  on  earth  have 
you  been?  You  know  we  promised  to  dine  with  Julia, 
and  then  to  go  to  those  tableaux  for  the  benefit  of  the 
children  in  Vienna.  She  has  worked  so  hard  to  make 
them  a  success  that  she  would  never  forgive  us  if  we 
stayed  away." 

"Yes,  I  know.  I  had  forgotten,"  he  replied.  Why 
was  he  always  forgetting?  Then  he  asked  impulsively, 


A  JOURNEY  INTO  MEAN  STREETS     197 

while  pity  burned  at  white  heat  within  him,  "Is  Father 
here?  I  want  to  speak  to  him  before  we  go  out." 

"He  came  in  an  hour  ago,"  said  Mrs.  Culpeper; 
and  as  she  spoke  the  mild  leonine  countenance  of  Mr. 
Culpeper,  vaguely  resembling  some  playful  and  domes 
ticated  king  of  beasts,  appeared  at  the  door  of  his 
dressing-room. 

"Do  you  wish  to  see  me,  my  boy?"  he  asked 
affectionately.  "We  were  just  wondering  if  you  had 
forgotten  and  stayed  at  the  club." 

"No,  I  wasn't  at  the  club.  I've  been  looking  over 
the  Culpeper  estate — a  part  of  it."  Stephen's  voice 
trembled  in  spite  of  the  effort  he  made  to  keep  it  im 
personal  and  indifferent.  "Father,  do  you  know  any 
thing  about  those  old  houses  beyond  Marshall  Street?" 

It  was  the  peculiar  distinction  of  Mr.  Culpeper  that, 
in  a  community  where  everybody  talked  all  the 
time,  he  had  been  able  to  form  the  habit  of  silence. 
While  his  acquaintances  continually  vociferated  opin 
ions,  scandals,  experiences,  or  anecdotes,  he  remained 
imperturbably  reticent  and  subdued.  All  that  he 
responded  now  to  Stephen's  outburst  was,  "Has  any 
body  offered  to  buy  them?" 

"Why,  what  in  the  world!"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Cul 
peper,  who  was  neither  reticent  nor  subdued.  From 
the  depths  of  the  mirror  her  bright  brown  eyes  gazed 
back  at  her  husband,  while  she  fastened  a  cameo  pin, 
containing  the  head  of  Minerva  framed  in  pearls,  in  the 
rose-point  on  her  bosom. 

"To  buy  them?"  repeated  Stephen.  "Why,  they 
are  horrors,  Father,  to  live  in — crumbling,  insanitary 
horrors !  And  yet  the  rent  has  been  doubled  in  the  last 
two  or  three  years." 


198  ONE  MAN  IN  HIS  TIME 

From  the  mirror  his  mother's  face  looked  back  at  him, 
so  small  and  clear  and  delicately  tinted  that  it  seemed 
to  him  merely  an  exaggerated  copy  of  the  cameo  on  her 
bosom.  "I  hope  that  means  we  shall  have  a  little  more 
to  live  on  next  year,"  she  said  reflectively,  while  the 
expression  that  Mary  Byrd  impertinently  called  her 
"economic  look"  appeared  in  her  eyes.  "What  with 
the  high  cost  of  everything,  and  the  low  interest  on 
Liberty  Bonds,  and  the  innumerable  relief  organizations 
to  which  one  is  simply  forced  to  contribute,  it  has  been 
almost  impossible  to  make  two  ends  meet.  Poor  Mary 
Byrd  hasn't  been  able  to  give  a  single  party  this  win 
ter." 

Before  Stephen's  gaze  there  passed  a  vision  of  the 
dingy  basement  room,  the  embittered  face  of  the 
woman,  the  sickly  tow-headed  children,  the  man  who 
could  not  lift  his  eyes  from  the  hole  in  the  carpet,  and 
the  baby  with  that  look  of  having  been  born  not  young, 
but  old,  the  look  of  pre-natal  experience  and  disillu 
sionment.  And  he  heard  Darrow's  dry  voice  complain 
ing  because  the  well-to-do  classes  still  gave  to  starving 
orphans  across  the  world.  After  all,  what  was  there  to 
choose  between  the  near-sighted  and  the  far-sighted 
social  vision?  How  narrow  they  both  appeared  and 
how  crooked!  Darrow  would  let  all  the  children  of 
Europe  starve  as  long  as  their  crying  did  not  interfere 
with  the  aims  of  his  Federation  of  Labour;  Stephen's 
sister  Julia,  with  her  instinct  for  imitation  and  her 
remote  sense  of  responsibility,  would  step  over  the 
poverty  at  her  door,  while  she  held  out  her  hands, 
in  the  latest  fashionable  gesture  of  philanthropy,  to 
the  orphans  in  France  or  Vienna.  And  beside  them 
both  his  mother,  who  because  of  her  constitutional 


A  JOURNEY  INTO  MEAN  STREETS     199 

inability  to  see  anything  beyond  the  family,  perceived 
merely  the  fact  that  her  own  child  would  be  dis 
appointed  if  the  tableaux  for  the  benefit  of  starving 
children  somewhere  did  not  go  off  well.  The  question, 
he  realized,  was  not  which  one  of  the  three  points  of 
view  was  the  most  admirable,  but  simply  which  one 
served  best  the  ultimate  purpose  of  the  race.  Selfishness 
seemed  to  have  as  little  as  altruism  to  do  with  the 
problem.  Was  Corinna,  who  had  failed  in  philanthropy 
and  chosen  beauty,  the  only  wise  one  among  them? 

"But  children  are  living  in  these  houses,"  he  said, 
"and  not  only  living — they  are  forced  to  move  out 
because  the  rent  has  become  so  high  that  they  must  find 
a  worse  place.  I've  just  seen  it  with  my  own  eyes. 
Three  sickly  little  children  and  a  dreadful  baby — a 
baby  that  knows  everything  already." 

A  quiver  of  pain  crossed  Mr.  Culpeper's  handsome 
features;  but  he  said  only,  "I  will  speak  to  the  agent." 

"Won't  you  look  into  it  yourself?"  asked  Stephen 
hopelessly.  "The  agent  is  only  the  agent — but  the 
responsibility  is  yours — ours.  Of  course  the  agent 
doesn't  want  to  make  expensive  repairs  when  he  can 
get  as  high  rent  without  doing  so.  He  knows  that 
people  are  obliged  to  have  a  roof  over  them ;  and  if  the 
roofs  are  too  bad  for  white  people,  he  can  always  find 
negroes  to  pay  anything  that  he  asks.  Can't  you  see 
what  it  is  in  reality — that  we  are  preying  on  the  help 
less?" 

Turning  suddenly  from  the  mirror,  Mrs.  Culpeper 
crossed  the  floor  hastily  and  put  her  arms  about  her 
son's  shoulders.  Her  face  was  very  motherly  and  there 
was  a  compassionate  light  in  her  eyes.  "My  dear,  dear 
boy,"  she  murmured  in  the  soothing  tone  that  one 


200  ONE  MAN  IN  HlS  TIME 

uses  to  the  ill  or  the  mentally  unbalanced.  "My  dear 
boy,  you  must  really  go  and  dress.  Julia  will  never 
forgive  us."  In  her  heart  she  was  sincerely  grieved  by 
what  he  had  told  her.  She  would  have  helped  cheer 
fully  if  it  had  been  possible  to  her  nature;  but  stronger 
than  compassion,  stronger  even  than  reason,  was  the 
instinct  of  evasive  idealism  which  the  generations  had 
bred.  He  understood,  while  he  looked  down  on  her 
white  hair  and  unlined  face,  that  even  if  he  took  her 
with  him  to  that  basement  room,  she  would  see  it  not  as 
it  actually  was,  but  as  she  wished  it  to  be.  Her  roman 
ticism  was  invulnerable  because  it  had  no  contact,  even 
through  imagination,  with  the  edge  of  reality. 

And  he  knew  also,  while  she  held  him  in  her 
motherly  arms,  that  something  had  broken  down  within 
his  soul — some  barrier  between  himself  and  humanity. 
The  wall  of  tradition  and  sentiment  no  longer  divided 
him  from  Darrow,  or  Gideon  Vetch,  or  the  man  who 
could  not  look  at  anything  but  the  hole  in  the  carpet. 
Never  again  could  he  take  his  inherited  place  in  the 
world  of  which  he  had  once  been  a  part.  For  an  in 
stant  a  nervous  impulse  to  protest,  to  startle  by  some 
violent  gesture  that  look  of  gentle  self-esteem  from 
the  faces  before  him,  jerked  over  him  like  a  spasm. 
Then  the  last  habit  that  he  would  ever  break  in  his 
life,  the  very  law  of  his  being,  which  was  the  law  of 
order,  of  manners,  of  self-control,  the  inbred  horror, 
older  than  himself  or  his  parents,  of  giving  himself  away, 
of  making  a  scene  of  his  own  emotions,  this  ancestral 
custom  of  good  breeding  closed  over  him  like  the  lid 
of  a  coffin. 

With  a  smile  he  looked  into  the  anxious  face  of  his 
father.  "Isn't  there  some  way  out  of  it,  Dad? " 


A  JOURNEY  INTO  MEAN  STREETS     201 

The  muscles  about  Mr.  Culpeper's  mouth  contracted 
as  if  he  were  going  to  cry;  but  when  he  spoke  his  voice 
was  completely  under  control.  "I  can't  interfere,  son, 
with  the  way  the  agent  manages  the  property,"  he 
answered,  "but,  of  course,  if  you  have  discovered  a 
peculiarly  distressing  case — if  it  is  an  object  of  char- 

ity- 

He  paused  abruptly  in  amazement,  for  Stephen  was 
laughing,  laughing  in  a  way,  as  Mrs.  Culpeper  re 
marked  afterward,  that  nobody  had  ever  even  thought 
of  laughing  before  the  whole  world  had  become  de 
moralized. 

"Damn  charity!"  he  exclaimed  hilariously.  "I  beg 
your  pardon,  Mother,  but  if  you  only  knew  how  inex 
pressibly  funny  it  is!"  Then  the  laughter  stopped, 
and  a  wistful  look  came  into  his  eyes,  for  beyond  the 
broken  walls  he  saw  Patty  Vetch  in  her  red  cape,  and 
around  her  stretched  the  wind-swept  roads  of  that  hid 
den  country. 

A  minute  later,  as  he  left  the  room,  his  mother's  eyes 
followed  him  anxiously.  "Poor  boy,  we  must  bear 
with  him,"  she  said  in  melting  maternal  accents. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

CORINNA  WONDERS 

AFTER  a  winter  of  Italian  skies  spring  had  come  in  a 
night.  It  was  a  morning  in  April,  blue  and  soft  as  a 
cloud,  with  a  roving  fragrance  of  lilacs  and  hyacinths 
in  the  air.  Already  the  early  bloom  of  the  orchard  had 
dropped,  and  the  freshly  ploughed  fields,  with  splashes 
of  henna  in  the  dun-coloured  soil,  were  surrounded  by 
the  budding  green  of  the  woods. 

As  Mrs.  Culpeper  knocked  at  the  door  of  Corinna's 
shop,  she  noticed  that  the  pine  bough  in  the  window 
had  been  replaced  by  bowls  of  growing  narcissi.  For 
a  moment  her  stern  expression  relaxed,  and  her  face, 
framed  in  a  bonnet  of  black  straw  with  velvet  strings, 
became  soft  and  anxious.  Beneath  the  veil  of  white 
illusion  which  reached  only  to  the  tip  of  her  small 
sharp  nose,  her  eyes  were  suddenly  touched  with 
spring. 

"How  delicious  the  flowers  smell,"  she  remarked 
when  Corinna  opened  the  door;  and  then,  as  she  en 
tered  the  room  and  glanced  curiously  round  her,  she 
asked  incredulously,  "Do  people  really  pay  money  for 
these  old  illustrations,  Corinna?" 

"Not  here,  Cousin  Harriet.  I  bought  these  in 
London." 

"And  they  cost  you  something?" 

"Some  of  these,  of  course,  cost  more  than  others. 
That,"  Corinna  pointed  to  a  mezzotint  of  the  Ladies 

202 


CORINNA  WONDERS  203 

Waldegrave  by  Valentine  Green,  "cost  a  little  less  than 
ten  thousand  dollars." 

"Ten  thousand  dollars!"  Mrs.  Culpeper  gazed  at 
the  print  as  disapprovingly  as  if  it  were  an  open  viola 
tion  of  the  Eighteenth  Amendment.  "We  didn't  pay 
anything  like  that  for  our  largest  copy  of  a  Murillo. 
Well,  I  may  not  be  artistic,  but,  for  my  part,  I  could 
never  understand  why  any  one  should  want  an  old  book 
or  an  old  picture."  Sitting  rigidly  upright  in  one  of  the 
tapestry -covered  chairs,  she  added  condescendingly: 
"Stephen  admires  this  room  very  much." 

"Stephen,"  remarked  Corinna  pleasantly,  "is  a 
dear  boy." 

"Just  now,"  returned  Stephen's  mother,  with  her 
accustomed  air  of  duty  unflinchingly  performed,  "he  is 
giving  us  a  great  deal  of  anxiety.  Never  before,  not 
even  when  he  was  in  the  war,  have  I  spent  so  many 
sleepless  nights  over  him." 

"I  am  sorry.     Poor  Stephen,  what  has  he  done?" 

"I  have  always  hoped,"  observed  Mrs.  Culpeper 
firmly,  "that  Stephen  would  marry  Margaret." 

"I  am  aware  of  that."  A  flicker  of  amusement 
brightened  Corinna' s  eyes.  "So,  I  think,  is  Stephen." 

"I  have  tried  to  be  honest.  It  seems  to  me  that  a 
mother's  wish  should  carry  a  great  deal  of  weight  in 
such  matters." 

"It  ought  to,"  assented  Corinna,  "but  I've  never 
heard  of  its  doing  so." 

"Everything  would  have  been  satisfactory  if  he  had 
not  allowed  himself  to  be  carried  away  by  a  foolish 
fancy." 

"I  cannot  imagine,"  said  Corinna  primly,  "that 
Stephen  could  ever  be  foolish.  It  gives  me  hope  of  him." 


204  ONE  MAN  IN  HIS  TIME 

Impaling  her,  as  if  she  had  been  a  butterfly,  with  a 
glance  as  sharp  as  a  needle,  Mrs.  Culpeper  demanded 
sternly,  "How  much  do  you  know  of  this  affair,  my 
dear?" 

In  spite  of  her  natural  courage  Corinna  was  seized 
with  a  shiver  of  apprehension.  "Do  you  think  it  is  an 
affair?"  she  asked. 

"I  think  it  is  worse.     I  think  it  is  an  infatuation." 

"What,  Stephen?  Not  really?"  Corinna's  voice  was 
mirthfully  incredulous. 

"I  have  seen  the  girl  once  or  twice,"  resumed  Mrs. 
Culpeper,  "and  she  seems  to  me  objectionable  from 
every  point  of  view." 

"Only  from  the  Culpeper  one,"  protested  Corinna. 
"I  find  her  very  attractive." 

"Well,  I  do  not."  Mrs.  Culpeper  had  relapsed  into 
her  tone  of  habitual  martyrdom.  "If  Stephen  chooses 
to  kill  me,"  she  added,  "he  may  do  it." 

Corinna  leaned  toward  her  ingratiatingly.  "Don't 
you  admit,  Cousin  Harriet,  that  I  have  improved 
Patty  tremendously?" 

"I  see  no  difference." 

"Oh,  but  there  is  one — a  great  difference!  If  you 
had  come  to  one  of  the  Governor's  receptions  last 
winter,  you  couldn't  have  told  that  she  wasn't — well, 
one  of  us.  She  has  been  so  quick  to  pick  up  things  that 
it  is  amazing." 

Mrs.  Culpeper  lifted  the  transparent  mesh  from  the 
point  of  her  nose.  "Do  you  know,"  she  demanded, 
"that  the  girl  was  born  in  a  circus  tent?" 

"So  I  have  heard.     It  was  a  romantic  beginning." 

Foiled  but  undaunted,  the  older  woman  fixed  on 
Corinna  the  stare  with  which  she  would  have  attempted 


CORINNA  WONDERS  205 

the  conversion  of  an  undraped  pagan  if  she  had  ever 
encountered  one.  Though  she  was  unconscious  of 
the  fact  as  she  sat  there,  suffering  yet  unbending,  in 
the  Florentine  chair,  she  represented  the  logical  result 
of  the  conservative  principle  in  nature,  of  the  spirit 
that  forgets  nothing  and  learns  nothing,  of  the  instinct 
of  the  type  to  reproduce  itself,  without  variation  or 
development,  until  the  pattern  is  worn  too  thin  to  en 
dure.  That  Stephen  had  inherited  this  passive  force, 
Corinna  knew,  but  she  knew  also,  that  it  was  threatened 
by  his  incurable  romanticism,  by  that  inarticulate  long 
ing  for  heroic  adventures. 

Suddenly,  as  if  moved  by  a  steel  spring,  Mrs.  Cul- 
peper  rose.  "I  know  you  have  a  great  deal  of  influence 
over  Stephen,"  she  said,  "and  I  hoped  that,  instead  of 
encouraging  him  in  his  folly,  you  would  sympathize 
with  me." 

"I  do  sympathize  with  you,  Cousin  Harriet — only  I 
have  learned  that  it  is  sometimes  very  difficult  to  decide 
what  is  folly  and  what  is  wisdom  in  a  man's  life." 

"There  can  scarcely  be  a  doubt,  I  think,  about  this. 
Surely  you  cannot  imagine  that  there  would  be  happi 
ness  for  my  son  in  a  marriage  with  the  daughter  of 
Gideon  Vetch?" 

There  was  a  dreamy  sweetness  in  Corinna's  eyes. 
"I  can't  answer  that,  Cousin  Harriet,  because  I  don't 
know.  But  are  you  sure  it  has  gone  as  far  as  that? 
Has  Stephen  really  thought  of  marriage?" 

"I  don't  know.  He  tells  me  nothing,"  replied  Mrs. 
Culpeper  hopelessly,  and  she  added  after  a  pause: 
"But  I  can't  help  having  eyes.  It  is  either  that — or  he 
is  going  into  politics."  Her  tone  was  as  despairing  as  if 
she  had  said,  "he  is  coming  down  with  fever." 


206  ONE  MAN  IN  HIS  TIME 

For  a  minute  Corinna  hesitated;  then  she  responded 
cheerfully,  "If  it  is  any  comfort  to  you,  Cousin  Harriet, 
I  feel  that  you  are  making  a  mountain  out  of  a  mole  hill. 
When  it  comes  to  the  point,  I  believe  that  Stephen  will 
revert  to  type  like  the  rest  of  us." 

Mrs.  Culpeper  clutched  desperately  at  the  straw  that 
was  offered  her.  "You  think  he  won't  ask  her  to 
marry  him?" 

"If  he  does,"  said  Corinna  firmly,  "I  shall  be  more 
surprised  than  I  have  ever  been  in  my  life." 

The  look  of  martyrdom  faded  slowly  from  her  visitor's 
features.  "You  say  this  because  you  know  Stephen?" 

"Because  I  know  Stephen — and  men,"  answered 
Corinna,  while  she  thought  of  John  Benham.  "Frankly, 
I  think  it  would  be  a  splendid  thing  for  Stephen  to  do. 
It  would  prove,  you  know,  that  he  cared  enough  to  make 
a  sacrifice.  I  think  it  would  be  splendid;  but  I  think 
also  that  we  are  of  the  breed  that  looks  too  long  before 
it  leaps.  Our  great  adventures  take  place  in  dreams 
or  in  talk.  We  like  to  play  with  forlorn  hopes;  but  the 
only  forlorn  hope  we  have  actually  embraced  is  the 
conservative  principle ;  and  we  couldn't  let  that  go,  even 
if  we  tried,  because  it  is  bred  in  our  bone.  So  I  believe 
that  the  hereditary  habit  will  drag  Stephen  safely 
back  before  he  rushes  into  danger.  He  may  play  with 
the  thought  of  Patty,  but  he  will  probably  marry 
Margaret." 

If  Mrs.  Culpeper's  too  refined  features  could  have 
expressed  passion,  it  would  have  been  the  passion  of 
thankfulness.  "It  was  worth  coming,"  she  said,  "to 
hear  you  say  that  of  Stephen." 

When  at  last  she  had  gone,  primly  grateful  for  the 
scrap  of  comfort,  Corinna  stood  for  a  minute  with  her 


CORINNA  WONDERS  207 

eyes  on  the  sunbeams  at  the  window.  Outside  there 
were  the  roving  winds  and  the  restless  spirit  of  April; 
and  feeling  suddenly  that  she  could  stand  the  close  walls 
and  the  familiar  objects  no  longer,  she  put  on  her  hat 
and  gloves  and  went  out  into  the  street.  Scarcely 
knowing  why,  with  some  vague  thought  that  she  might 
go  to  see  Patty,  she  turned  in  the  direction  of  the 
Capitol  Square,  walking  with  her  buoyant  grace  which 
seemed  a  part  of  the  fugitive  beauty  of  April.  The  air 
was  so  fragrant,  the  sunshine  so  softly  burning,  that  it 
was  as  if  summer  were  advancing,  not  gradually,  but  in 
a  single  miracle  of  florescence.  It  was  one  of  those 
days  which  release  all  the  secret  inexpressible  dreams 
of  the  heart.  Every  face  that  she  passed  was  touched 
with  the  wistful  longing  which  is  the  very  essence  of 
spring.  She  saw  it  in  the  faces  of  the  women  who 
hurried,  warm,  flushed,  and  impatientj  from  the  shops 
or  the  markets;  she  saw  it  in  the  faces  of  the  men  return 
ing  from  work  and  thinking  of  freedom;  and  she  saw  it 
again  in  the  long  sad  faces  of  the  dray -horses  standing 
hitched  to  a  city  cart  at  the  corner. 

In  the  Square  the  sunlight  lay  in  splinters  over  the 
young  grass,  which  was  dotted  with  buttercups,  and 
overhead  the  long  black  boughs  of  the  trees  were 
sprinkled  with  pale  green  leaves.  Back  and  forth  from 
the  grassy  slopes  to  the  winding  brick  walks,  squirrels 
darted,  busy  and  joyous;  and  a  few  old  men,  never 
absent  from  the  benches,  were  smiling  vaguely  at  the 
passers-by. 

When  she  reached  the  gate  of  the  Governor's  house, 
her  wish  to  see  Patty  had  vanished,  and  she  decided 
that  she  would  go  on  to  the  library  and  ask  for  a 
book  that  she  had  recently  heard  John  Benham  dis- 


208  ONE  MAN  IN  HIS  TIME 

cussing.  How  much  of  her  life  now,  in  spite  of  its  active 
impersonal  interests,  was  beginning  to  centre  in  John 
Benham!  They  were  planning  to  be  married  in  June, 
and  beyond  that  month  of  roses,  which  was  once  so 
saturated  with  memories  of  her  early  romance,  she  saw 
ahead  of  her  long  years  of  tranquil  happiness.  Well, 
she  could  not  complain.  After  all,  was  not  tranquil 
happiness  the  best  that  life  had  to  offer? 

She  had  ascended  the  steps  of  the  library,  and  was 
about  to  enter  the  swinging  doors,  when  she  turned  and 
glanced  back  at  the  dappled  boughs  of  an  old  sycamore, 
outlined  so  softly,  with  its  budding  leaves,  against  the 
green  hill  and  the  changeable  blue  of  the  sky.  The  long 
walk  was  almost  deserted.  A  fountain  played  gently 
at  the  end  of  the  slope;  a  few  coloured  nurses  were  dozing 
on  a  bench,  while  their  be-ribboned  charges  scattered  pea 
nuts  before  a  fluttering  crowd  of  sparrows,  pigeons,  and 
squirrels;  and,  leaning  on  a  rude  crutch,  a  lame  old 
negro  woman  was  dragging  a  basket  of  brushwood  to  the 
brow  of  the  hill.  The  scene  was  very  peaceful,  wrapped 
in  that  languorous  stillness  which  is  the  pervading 
charm  of  the  South;  and  beyond  the  high  spikes  of  the 
iron  fence,  the  noise  of  passing  street  cars  sounded  far 
off  and  unreal. 

She  was  still  standing  there,  with  her  dreamy  eyes  on 
the  old  negress  toiling  up  the  hill  with  her  basket  of 
brushwood,  when  a  man  passed  the  fountain  hurriedly, 
and  came  with  a  brisk,  springy  stride  up  the  brick  walk 
below  the  library.  As  she  watched  him,  at  first 
without  recognition,  she  thought  vaguely  that  his 
rugged  figure  made  a  picture  of  embodied  activity,  of 
physical  energy  and  enjoyment.  The  next  minute  he 
reached  the  old  negress,  glanced  at  her  casually  in  pass- 


CORINNA  WONDERS  209 

ing,  and  turning  abruptly  round,  lifted  the  basket,  and 
carried  it  to  the  top  of  the  hill.  Then,  as  he  looked 
back  at  the  old  woman,  who  limped  after  him,  he 
laughed  with  boyish  merriment,  and  Corinna  saw  in 
amazement  that  the  man  was  Gideon  Vetch. 

"He  is  obliged  to  be  theatrical,"  remarked  a  voice 
behind  her,  and  glancing  over  her  shoulder  she  saw  that 
she  had  been  joined  by  a  severe-looking  young  woman 
with  several  books  under  her  arm. 

"Is  it  that?"  asked  Corinna  doubtfully,  and  she 
added  to  herself  after  a  moment,  "I  wonder?" 

A  little  later,  as  she  was  leaving  the  Square,  Stephen 
overtook  her,  and  she  told  him  of  the  incident.  "The 
Governor  is  always  breaking  out  like  an  epidemic 
where  you  least  expect  him,"  she  concluded  with  a 
smile. 

"I  know.  I've  caught  him."  Though  the  young 
man's  eyes  reflected  her  smile,  his  tone  was  serious. 
"I  can't  rid  myself  of  the  fellow." 

"Have  you  been  to  see  him  this  morning?" 

He  laughed.  "  I  should  say  not !  But  I've  been  in  a 
worse  fix.  I've  just  walked  up  the  street  with — well, 
imagine  it! — that  bounder  Gershom." 

"So  you  both  haunt  the  Square?" 

At  the  question  Stephen  turned  and  faced  her  frankly. 
"How,  in  Heaven's  name,  does  she  stand  him?" 

"That's  a  riddle.     To  me  he  is  impossible." 

"He  is  more  than  that.  He  is  unspeakable."  As  he 
looked  into  her  eyes  a  deep  anxiety  or  disturb 
ance  appeared  beneath  the  superficial  gaiety  of  his 
smile.  "The  fellow  had  evidently  had  a  quarrel,  per 
haps  a  permanent  break,  with  Vetch.  He  was  in  a  kind 
of  cold  rage;  and  do  you  know  what  he  said  to  me? 


210  ONE  MAN  IN  HIS  TIME 

He  told  me, — not  openly,  but  in  pretended  secrecy, — 
that  Vetch  had  never  married  Patty's  mother " 

For  an  instant  Corinna  gazed  at  him  in  silence. 
Then  her  words  came  in  a  gasp  of  indignation.  "Of 
course  there  isn't  a  word  of  truth  in  it!" 

"So  I  said  to  him.  He  insists  that  he  has  the  proofs. 
You  know  what  it  means?" 

"Oh,  I  know — poor  Patty!  You  understand  why 
he  told  you?" 

"I  couldn't  at  first  see  the  reason;  but  afterward  it 
came  to  me." 

"  The  reason  is  as  clear  as  daylight.  He  is  infatuated, 
and  he  imagines  that  you  stand  in  his  way." 

"Not  only  that.  I  think  he  has  some  idea  of  using 
whatever  proofs  he  has  to  bend  Vetch  to  his  will.  He 
was  sharp  enough  not  to  say  so,  for  he  knew  that  would 
be  pure  blackmail.  The  ground  he  took  was  one  of 
nauseating  morality,  but  I  inferred  that  he  is  trying  to 
force  Vetch  to  agree  to  this  general  strike,  and  that  he  is 
prepared  to  threaten  him  with  some  kind  of  exposure  if 
he  doesn't.  This,  however,  was  mere  surmise  on  my 
part.  The  fellow  is  as  shrewd  as  he  is  unprincipled." 

When  Corinna  believed  it  was  in  full  measure 
and  overflowing.  "It's  not  true.  I  know  it's  not 
true." 

"Has  Patty  told  you  anything?" 

"Nobody  has  told  me  anything.  One  doesn't  have 
to  have  a  reason  for  knowing  things — at  least  one 
doesn't  unless  one  is  a  man.  I  know  it  because  I  know 
it."  Then,  without  waiting  for  his  reply,  she  con 
tinued  with  cheerful  firmness:  "The  best  way  to  treat 
scandal  is  to  forget  it.  Don't  you  think  that  Patty 
improves  every  day?" 


CORIXXA  WONDERS  211 

He  reddened  and  looked  away  from  her.  "Yes,  she 

grows  more  attractive,  I "  While  she  still  waited 

for  him  to  complete  his  sentence,  he  shot  out  in  an  em 
barrassed  tone:  "Corinna,  do  you  believe  in  Gideon 
Vetch?" 

For  an  instant  Corinna  hesitated.  "I  believe  that 
he  is — well,  just  Gideon  Vetch,"  she  answered  enigmati 
cally. 

"Just  a  professional  politician?" 

"Not  at  all.  He  is  a  great  deal  more  than  that,  but 
what  that  great  deal  is  I  cannot  pretend  to  say." 

"Do  you  ever  see  him  away  from  Patty?" 

"Now  and  then.     He  has  been  to  the  shop." 

"And  you  like  him?" 

Again  she  hesitated.  "Yes,  I  like  him."  Turning 
her  head,  she  looked  straight  at  him  with  a  glow  in  her 
eyes.  "That  is,"  she  corrected  softly,  "I  should  like 
him  if  it  were  not  for  John." 

"You  compare  him  with  John?" 

"Don't  you?" 

"Naturally.     Of  course  the  Governor  loses  by  that." 

"Who  wouldn't?" 

Her  face  flushed  at  the  thought,  and  as  Stephen 
watched  her,  he  asked  in  a  gentler  voice,  "Are  you 
really  to  be  married  in  June?" 

She  smiled  an  assent,  with  her  dreaming  gaze  on  the 
young  leaves  and  the  blue  sky. 

"Are  you  happy?"  he  persisted. 

Her  smile  answered  him  again.  "One  dreads  the 
lonely  fireside  as  one  grows  older."  Then  suddenly,  as 
if  the  shadow  of  a  cloud  had  drifted  over  the  bright  sky. 
he  saw  the  smile  fade  from  her  lips  and  the  glow  from 
her  upraised  eyes.  Somewhere  within  her  brain  a 


ONE  MAN  IN  HIS  TIME 

voice  as  hollow  as  an  echo  was  repeating,  "Isn't  that 
life — sparrows  for  larks  always  ?  " 

"Well,  you  know  what  I  feel  about  you,  and  what 
I  think  about  Benham,"  replied  Stephen.  "You 
two  together  stand  for  all  that  I  admire."  As  if 
ashamed  of  the  tone  of  sentiment,  he  continued 
carelessly  after  a  moment:  "Vetch  is  very  far  from 
being  a  Benham,  and  yet  there  is  something  about 
the  man  that  holds  one's  attention.  People  are  for 
ever  discussing  him.  A  little  while  ago  we  were 
talking  about  his  personal  peculiarities  and  his  political 
offences.  Now  we  are  wondering  how  he  will  handle 
this  strike  if  it  comes  off;  and  what  effect  it  will 
have  on  his  career?  Benham,  of  course,  thinks  that  he 
is  an  instrument  in  the  hands  of  a  political  group;  that 
his  office  was  the  price  they  paid  him  not  to  interfere  in 
the  strike.  As  for  me  I  have  no  opinion.  I  am  waiting 
to  see  what  will  happen." 

They  had  reached  the  old  print  shop;  and,  as 
they  paused  beneath  the  cedars  in  the  front  yard, 
Stephen  glanced  up  at  the  window  under  the  quaint 
shingled  roof.  The  upper  storey,  he  knew,  was  rented 
to  a  couple  of  tenants,  and  he  was  not  surprised 
when  he  saw  the  curtains  of  dotted  swiss  pushed  aside 
and  a  woman's  face  look  down  on  him  over  the  red 
geranium  on  the  window-sill.  The  face  was  familiar; 
but,  while  he  stared  back  at  it,  searching  his  mem 
ory  for  a  resemblance,  the  white  curtains  dropped 
together  again,  veiling  the  features.  Where  had  he 
seen  that  woman  before?  What  association  of  ideas 
did  the  sight  of  her  recall?  In  a  flash,  while  he  still 
groped  through  mental  obscurity,  light  broke  on 
him. 


CORINNA  WONDERS  213 

"Who  is  that  woman,  Corinna?"  he  asked.  "What 
do  you  know  of  her?" 

"That  woman?"  Corinna  repeated;  then,  as  he 
lifted  his  eyes  to  the  window,  she  added,  "Oh, 
that's  Mrs.  Green.  A  pathetic  face,  isn't  it?  I  know 
nothing  about  her  except  that  she  came  in  a  few 
weeks  ago,  and  the  caretaker  tells  me  that  she  is  leav 
ing  to-morrow." 

"Do  you  know  where  she  came  from?" 

"My  dear  Stephen!  Why,  what  in  the  world?"  A 
laugh  broke  from  Corinna's  lips.  "Did  you  ever  see 
her  before?" 

"Twice,  and  both  times  in  the  Capitol  Square.  I 
thought  her  dreadful  to  look  at." 

"I've  only  glanced  at  her,  but  she  appeared  to  me 
more  pathetic  than  dreadful.  She  has  been  ill,  I 
imagine,  and  she  looks  terribly  poor.  I'm  afraid  the 
rent  is  too  high,  but  I  can't  do  anything,  for  she  rented 
her  room  from  the  tenants.  I  suppose,  poor  thing, 
that  she  is  merely  a  sad  adventuress,  and  it  is  not  the 
sad  adventuresses,  but  the  glad  ones,  who  usually  enlist 
a  young  man's  sympathy.  By  the  way,  I  am  lunching 
with  the  Governor  to-morrow." 

"Is  it  a  party?" 

"No,  just  the  family.  That  shows  how  intimate  I 
have  become  with  the  Vetches.  Don't  tell  Cousin 
Harriet,  or  she  would  think  I  was  beginning  to  corrupt 
your  politics.  But  I  may  use  my  influence  to  find 
out  what  the  Governor  intends  to  do  about  the  strike, 
and  a  cousin  with  a  political  secret  is  worth  having." 

With  a  laugh  Stephen  went  on  his  way,  wondering 
vaguely  what  there  was  about  the  woman  at  the  win 
dow,  Mrs.  Green  Corinna  had  called  her,  that  made 


£14  ONE  MAN  IN  HIS  TIME 

it  impossible  for  him  to  rid  his  mind  of  her?  Glancing 
back  from  the  end  of  the  block,  he  saw  that  Corinna  had 
entered  the  shop  and  that  the  curtains  at  the  upper 
window  had  been  pushed  back  again  while  the  dim  face 
of  Mrs.  Green  looked  down  into  the  street.  Was  she 
watching  for  some  one?  Or  was  she  merely  relieving 
the  monotony  of  life  indoors  by  gazing  down  into  Frank 
lin  Street  at  an  hour  when  it  was  almost  deserted? 


CHAPTER  XIV 

A  LITTLE  LIGHT  ON  HUMAN  NATURE 

CORINNA  had  not  expected  to  see  the  Governor  until 
luncheon  next  day;  but,  to  her  surprise,  he  came  to  the 
shop  just  as  she  was  about  to  lock  the  door  and.  go 
home  for  the  afternoon.  At  first  she  thought  that  the 
visit  was  merely  a  casual  one — it  was  not  unusual  for 
him  to  drop  in  as  he  was  going  by — but  he  had  no  sooner 
glanced  about  the  room  to  see  if  they  were  alone  than  he 
broke  out  with  his  characteristic  directness. 

"There  is  something  I  want  to  ask  you.  Will  you 
answer  me  frankly?" 

"That  depends.  Tell  me  what  it  is  and  then  I  will 
answer  your  question." 

"It  is  about  Patty.  You've  seen  a  great  deal  of  her, 
haven't  you?" 

"A  great  deal.     I  am  very  fond  of  her." 

"Then  perhaps  you  can  tell  me  if  she  is  interested  in 
this  young  Culpeper?" 

For  a  minute  Corinna  struggled  against  a  burst  of 
hysterical  laughter.  Oh,  if  Cousin  Harriet  had  only 
met  him  here,  she  thought,  what  a  comedy  they  would 
have  made! 

"  Surely  if  any  one  has  an  opinion  about  that,  it  must 
be  you,"  she  rejoined  as  gravely  as  she  could. 

"I  haven't;  not  the  shadow  of  one."  He  was  plainly 
puzzled.  "I  thought  you  might  help  me.  You  have 
a  way  of  seeing  things." 

215 


216  ONE  MAN  IN  HIS  TIME 


"Have  I?"  The  spontaneous  tribute  touched  her. 
"I  wish  I  could  see  this,  but  I  can't.  Frankly,  since 
you  ask  me,  I  may  say  that  I  have  been  troubled  about 
it.  There  are  things  that  Patty  hides,  even  from  me, 
and  I  think  I  have  her  confidence." 

"I  dare  say  you  wonder  why  I  have  come  to  you 
to-day,"  he  said.  "I  can  handle  most  situations;  but  I 
have  never  had  to  handle  the  love  affairs  of  a  girl,  and 
I'm  perfectly  capable  of  making  a  mess  of  them. 
Things  like  that  are  outside  of  my  job." 

He  seemed  to  her  a  pathetic  figure  as  he  stood  there, 
in  his  boyish  embarrassment  and  his  redundant  vi 
tality,  confessing  an  inability  to  surmount  the  obstacle 
in  his  way.  She  had  never  known  any  one,  man 
or  woman,  who  was  so  obviously  lacking  in  subtlety 
of  perception,  in  all  those  delicate  intuitions  on  which 
she  relied  more  completely  than  on  judgment  for  an 
accurate  impression  of  life.  Was  he,  with  his  bigness, 
his  earnestness,  his  luminous  candour,  only  an  over 
grown  child?  Even  his  physical  magnetism,  and  she 
felt  this  in  the  very  moment  when  she  was  trying 
to  analyse  it,  even  his  physical  magnetism  might  be 
nothing  more  than  the  spell  exercised  by  primitive 
impulse  over  the  too  complex  problems  of  civilization. 
She  had  heard  that  he  was  unscrupulous — vague  char 
ges  that  he  had  never  been  able  to  repel — yet  she  was 
conscious  now  of  a  secret  wish  to  protect  him  from  the 
consequences  of  his  duplicity,  as  she  might  have 
wished  to  protect  an  irresponsible  child.  Some  mys 
terious  sense  perception  made  her  aware  that  beneath 
what  appeared  to  be  discreditable  public  actions  there 
was  the  simple  bed-rock  of  honesty.  For  the  quality 
she  felt  in  Vetch  was  a  profound  moral  integrity,  an 


A  LITTLE  LIGHT  ON  HUMAN  NATURE  217 

integrity  which  was  bred  by  nature  in  the  innermost 
fibre  of  the  man. 

"If  you  will  tell  me "  she  began,  and  checked 

herself  with  a  sensation  of  helplessness.  After  all,  what 
could  he  tell  her  that  she  did  not  know? 

"I  want  to  do  what  is  right  for  her,"  he  said  abruptly. 
"I  should  hate  for  her  to  be  hurt." 

While  he  talked  it  seemed  to  Corinna  that  she  was 
living  in  some  absurd  comedy,  which  mimicked  life  but 
was  only  acting,  not  reality.  In  her  world  of  reserves 
and  implications  no  man  would  have  dared  to  make 
himself  ridiculous  by  a  visit  like  this. 

"Do  you  believe  that  she  cares  for  Stephen?"  she 
asked  bluntly. 

"It  didn't  start  with  me.  Miss  Spencer,  that's  the 
lady  who  lives  with  us  you  know,  is  afraid  that  Patty 
sees  too  much  of  him.  He  is  at  the  house  every 
day 

"Well?"  Corinna  waited  patiently.  She  was  not 
in  the  least  afraid  of  what  Stephen  might  do.  She  knew 
that  she  could  trust  him  to  be  a  gentleman;  but  being 
a  gentleman,  she  reflected,  did  not  necessarily  keep  one 
from  breaking  a  woman's  heart.  And  Patty  had  a 
wild,  free  heart  that  might  be  broken. 

"I  don't  know  what  to  do  about  it,"  Vetch  was  saying 
while  she  pondered  the  problem.  "As  I  told  you  a 
minute  ago  this  is  all  outside  my  job." 

"Have  you  spoken  to  Patty?" 

"I  started  to,  but  she  made  fun  of  the  idea — you 
know  the  way  she  has.  She  asked  me  if  I  had  ever 
heard  of  any  one  falling  in  love  with  a  plaster  saint?" 

Corinna  smiled.  "So  she  called  Stephen  a  plaster 
saint?" 


218  ONE  MAN  IN  HIS  TIME 

"She  was  chaffing,  of  course." 

"Well,  I  don't  see  that  there  is  anything  you  can  do 
unless  you  send  Patty  away." 

"She  wouldn't  go,"  he  responded  simply;  then  after 
a  moment  of  embarrassed  hesitation,  he  blurted  out 
nervously,  "Is  this  young  Culpeper  what  you  would 
call  a  marrying  man?" 

This  time  it  was  impossible  for  Corinna  to  suppress 
her  amusement,  and  it  broke  out  in  a  laugh  that  was  like 
the  chiming  of  silver  bells.  Oh,  if  only  Cousin  Harriet 
could  hear  him !  Then  observing  the  gravity  of  Vetch's 
expression,  she  checked  her  untimely  mirth  with  an 
effort. 

"That  depends,  I  suppose.  At  his  age  how  can  any 
one  tell?  "  In  her  heart  she  did  not  believe  that  Stephen 
would  marry  Patty;  she  was  not  sure  even  that  she, 
Corinna,  should  wish  him  to  do  so.  There  was  too 
much  at  stake,  and  though  her  philosophy  was  fearless, 
her  conduct  had  never  been  anything  but  conventional. 
While  in  theory  she  despised  discretion,  she  realized 
that  the  virtue  she  despised,  not  the  theory  she  ad 
mired,  had  dominated  her  life.  The  great  trouble  with 
acts  of  reckless  nobility  was  that  the  recklessness  was 
only  for  a  moment,  but  the  nobility  was  obliged  to  last 
a  lifetime.  It  was  not  difficult,  she  knew,  for  persons 
like  Stephen  or  herself  to  be  heroic  in  appropriate  circum 
stances;  the  difficulty  began  when  one  was  compelled 
to  sustain  the  heroic  role  long  after  the  appropriate  cir 
cumstances  had  passed  away.  Yet,  in  spite  of  the 
cynical  lucidity  of  her  judgment,  the  romantic  in  her 
heart  longed  to  have  Stephen,  by  one  generous  act  of 
devotion,  prove  her  theory  fallacious.  Her  strongest 
impulse,  the  impulse  to  create  happiness,  to  repair,  as 


A  LITTLE  LIGHT  ON  HUMAN  NATURE  219 

her  father  had  once  described  it,  crippled  destinies; 
this  impulse  urged  her  now  to  help  Patty's  pathetic 
romance  in  every  way  in  her  power.  It  would  be  very 
fine  if  Stephen  cared  enough  to  forget  what  he  was 
losing.  It  would  be  magnificent,  she  felt,  but  it  would 
not  be  masculine.  For  she  had  had  great  experience; 
and  though  men  might  vary  in  a  multitude  of  partic 
ulars,  she  had  found  that  the  solidarity  of  sex  was  pre 
served  in  some  general  code  of  emotional  expediency. 

"Do  you  think,"  Vetch  was  making  another  attempt 
to  explain  his  meaning,  "that  he  is  seriously  inter 
ested?" 

"I  am  perfectly  sure,"  she  replied,  "that  he  is  more 
than  half  in  love  with  her." 

"Is  he  the  kind,  then,  to  let  himself  go  the  rest  of  the 
way?" 

She  shook  her  head.  "  That  I  cannot  answer.  From 
my  knowledge  of  the  restraining  force  of  the  Culpeper 
fibre,  I  should  say  that  he  is  not." 

"You  mean  he  wouldn't  think  it  a  suitable  marriage?  " 

She  blushed  for  his  crudeness.  "I  mean  his  mother 
wouldn't  think  it  a  suitable  marriage.  Patty  is  very 
attractive,  but  they  know  nothing  about  her  except 
that.  You  see  they  have  had  the  disadvantage  of 
knowing  everything  about  every  one  who  has  married, 
or  who  has  even  wished  to  marry,  into  the  family  for  the 
last  two  hundred  years.  It  is  a  disadvantage,  as  I've 
said,  for  the  strain  is  so  highly  bred  that  each  gener 
ation  becomes  mentally  more  and  more  like  the  fish  in 
caves  that  have  lost  their  eyes  because  they  stopped 
trying  to  see.  Stephen  is  different  in  a  way — and  yet 
not  different  enough.  It  would  be  his  salvation  if  he 
could  care  enough  for  Patty  to  take  a  risk  for  her  sake; 


220  ONE  MAN  IN  HIS  TIME 

but  his  mother,  of  course,  would  fight  against  it  with 
every  particle  of  her  influence,  and  her  influence  is 
enormous."  Then  she  met  his  eyes  boldly:  "Wouldn't 
you  fight  against  it  in  her  place?"  she  asked. 

"I?  Oh,  I  shouldn't  care  a  hang  what  anybody 
thought  if  I  liked  the  girl,"  he  retorted.  His  smile 
shone  out  warmly.  "Would  you?"  he  demanded  in 
his  turn. 

For  an  instant  his  blunt  question  disconcerted  her, 
and  while  she  hesitated  she  felt  his  blue  eyes  on  her 
downcast  face.  "You  can't  judge  by  me,"  she  an 
swered  presently.  "Only  those  who  have  been  in 
chains  know  the  meaning  of  freedom." 

"Are  you  free  now?" 

"Not  entirely.     Who  is?" 

He  was  looking  at  her  more  closely ;  and  when  at  last 
she  raised  her  eyelashes  and  met  his  gaze,  the  lovely 
glow  which  gave  her  beauty  its  look  of  October  splen 
dour  suffused  her  features.  Anger  seized  her  in  the 
very  moment  that  the  colour  rushed  to  her  cheeks. 
Why  should  she  blush  like  a  schoolgirl  because  of  the 
way  this  man — or  any  man — looked  at  her? 

"Are  you  going  to  marry  Benham?"  he  asked;  and 
there  was  a  note  in  his  voice  which  disturbed  her  in  spite 
of  herself.  Though  she  denied  passionately  his  right  to 
question  her,  she  answered  simply  enough:  "Yes,  I 
am  going  to  marry  him." 

"Do  you  care  for  him?" 

With  an  effort  she  turned  her  eyes  away  and  looked 
beyond  the  green  stems  and  the  white  flowers  of  the 
narcissi  in  the  window  to  the  street  outside,  where  the 
shadows  of  the  young  leaves  lay  like  gauze  over  the 
brick  pavement. 


A  LITTLE  LIGHT  ON  HUMAN  NATURE 

"If  I  didn't  care  do  you  think  that  I  would  marry 
him?"  she  asked  in  a  low  voice.  Through  the  open 
window  a  breeze  came,  honey-sweet  with  the  scent  of 
narcissi,  and  she  realized,  with  a  start,  that  this  early 
spring  was  poignantly  lovely  and  sad. 

"Well,  I  wish  I'd  known  you  twenty  years  ago," 
said  Vetch  presently.  "If  I'd  had  a  woman  like  you  to 
help  me,  I  might  have  been  almost  anything.  No 
body  knows  better  than  I  how  much  help  a  woman  can 
be  when  she's  the  right  sort." 

She  tore  her  gaze  from  the  sunshine  beyond,  from 
the  beauty  and  the  wistfulness  of  April.  What  was 
there  in  this  man  that  convinced  her  in  spite  of  every 
thing  that  Benham  had  told  her? 

"Your  wife  has  been  dead  a  long  time?"  She  spoke 
gently,  for  his  tone  more  than  his  words  had  touched 
her  sympathy. 

As  soon  as  she  asked  the  question,  she  realized  that 
it  was  a  mistake.  An  expressionless  mask  closed  over 
his  face,  and  she  received  the  impression  that  he  had 
withdrawn  to  a  distance. 

"A  long  time,"  was  all  he  answered.  His  voice  had 
become  so  impersonal  that  it  was  toneless. 

"Well,  it  hasn't  kept  you  back — not  having  help," 
she  hastened  to  reply  as  naturally  as  she  could.  "You 
are  almost  everything  you  wished  to  be  in  the  world, 
aren't  you?"  It  was  a  foolish  speech,  she  felt,  but 
the  change  in  his  manner  had  surprised  and  bewildered 
her. 

He  laughed  shortly  without  merriment.  "I?"  he 
replied,  and  she  noticed  for  the  first  time  that  he  looked 
tired  and  worried  beneath  his  exuberant  optimism. 
"I  am  the  loneliest  man  on  earth.  The  loneliest  man 


222  ONE  MAN  IN  HIS  TIME 

on  earth  is  the  one  who  stands  between  two  extremes. 
As  she  made  no  reply,  he  continued  after  a  moment, 
"You  think,  of  course,  that  I  stand  with  one  extreme, 
not  in  the  centre,  but  you  are  mistaken.  I  am  in  the 
middle.  When  I  try  to  bring  the  two  millstones  to 
gether  they  will  grind  me  to  powder." 

She  had  never  heard  him  speak  despondently  before; 
and  while  she  listened  to  the  sound  of  his  expressive 
voice,  so  full,  for  the  hour  at  least,  of  discouragement, 
she  felt  drawn  to  him  in  a  new  and  personal  way.  It 
was  as  if,  by  showing  her  a  side  of  his  nature  the 
public  had  never  seen,  he  had  taken  her  into  his 
confidence. 

"But  surely  your  influence  is  as  great  as  ever,"  she 
said  presently.  A  trite  remark,  but  the  only  one  that 
occurred  to  her. 

"I  brought  the  crowd  with  me  as  far  as  I  thought 
safe,"  he  answered,  "and  now  it  is  beginning  to  turn 
against  me  because  I  won't  lead  it  over  the  precipice 
into  the  sea.  That's  the  way  it  always  is,  I  reckon. 
That's  the  way  it's  been,  anyhow,  ever  since  Moses 
tried  to  lead  the  Children  of  Israel  out  of  bondage. 
Take  these  strikers,  for  instance.  I  believe  in  the  right 
to  strike.  I  believe  that  they  ought  to  have  every  pos 
sible  protection.  I  believe  that  their  families  ought  to 
be  provided  for  in  order  to  take  the  weapon  of  star 
vation  out  of  the  hands  of  the  capitalists.  I'd  give 
them  as  fair  a  field  as  it  is  in  my  power  to  provide, 
and  anybody  would  think  that  they  would  be  satisfied 
with  simple  fairness.  But,  no,  what  they  are  trying 
to  do  is  not  to  strike  for  themselves,  but  to  strike  at 
somebody  else.  They  are  not  satisfied  with  protection 
from  starvation  unless  that  protection  involves  the  right 


A  LITTLE  LIGHT  ON  HUMAN  NATURE  223 

to  starve  somebody  else.  They  want  to  tie  up  the 
markets  and  stop  the  dairy  trains,  and  they  won't 
wink  an  eyelash  if  all  the  babies  that  don't  belong  to 
them  are  without  milk.  That's  war,  they  tell  me;  and 
I  answer  that  I'd  treat  war  just  as  I'd  treat  a  strike, 
if  I  had  the  power.  As  soon  as  an  army  began  to  prey 
on  the  helpless,  I'd  raise  a  bigger  army  if  I  could  and 
throw  the  first  one  out  into  the  jungle  where  it  belonged. 
But  people  don't  see  things  like  that  now,  though  they 
may  in  the  next  five  hundred  years.  The  trouble  is 
that  all  human  nature,  including  capitalist  and  labourer, 
is  tarred  with  the  same  brush  and  tarred  with  selfish 
ness.  What  the  oppressed  want  is  not  freedom  from 
oppression,  but  the  opportunity  to  become  oppres 


sors." 


Was  this  only  a  mood,  she  wondered,  or  was  it  the 
expression  of  a  profound  disappointment?  Sympathy 
such  as  John  Benham  had  never  awakened  overflowed 
from  her  heart,  and  she  was  conscious  suddenly  of 
some  deep  intuitive  understanding  of  Vetch's  nature. 
All  that  had  been  alien  or  ambiguous  became  as  close 
and  true  and  simple  as  the  thoughts  in  her  OWTI  mind. 
What  she  saw  in  Vetch,  she  perceived  now,  was  that 
resemblance  to  herself  which  the  Judge  had  once  turned 
into  a  jest.  She  discerned  his  point  of  view  not  by 
looking  outside  of  herself,  but  by  looking  within. 

"I  know,"  she  responded  in  her  rich  voice.  "I 
think  I  know." 

He  gazed  at  her  with  a  smile  which  had  grown  as 
tired  as  the  rest  of  him.  "Then  if  you  know  why 
don't  you  help — you  others?"  he  asked.  "Don't 
you  see  that  by  standing  aside,  by  keeping  apart,  you 
are  doing  all  the  harm  that  you  can?  If  democracy 


224  ONE  MAN  IN  HIS  TIME 

doesn't  seem  good  enough  for  you,  then  get  down  into 
the  midst  of  it  and  make  it  better.  That's  the  only 
way — the  only  way  on  earth  to  make  a  better  democ 
racy — by  putting  the  best  we've  got  into  it.  You 
can't  make  bread  rise  from  the  outside.  You've  got 
to  mix  the  yeast  with  the  dough,  if  you  want  it  to  leaven 
the  whole  lump." 

She  had  been  standing  with  her  hands  clasped  be 
fore  her  and  her  eyes  on  the  sky  beyond  the  window; 
and  when  he  paused,  with  a  husky  tone  in  his  voice, 
she  spoke  almost  as  if  she  were  in  a  dream.  "I  believe 
in  you,"  she  said,  and  then  again,  as  he  did  not  speak 
she  repeated  very  slowly:  "I  believe  in  you." 

"That  helps,"  he  answered  gravely.  "I  don't 
suppose  you  will  ever  realize  how  much  that  will 
help  me."  As  he  finished  he  turned  toward  the  door; 
and  a  minute  afterward,  without  another  word  or 
look,  he  went  out  into  the  street,  and  she  saw  his  figure 
cross  the  flowers  and  the  sunlight  in  the  window. 

When  he  had  gone  Corinna  opened  the  door  and  stood 
watching  the  long  black  shadows  of  the  cedars  creep 
over  the  walk  of  broken  flagstones.  Always  when  she 
was  alone  her  thoughts  would  return  like  homing  birds 
to  John  Benham;  but  this  afternoon,  though  she  spoke 
his  name  in  her  reflections,  she  was  conscious  of  an 
inner  detachment  from  the  vital  interests  of  her  per 
sonal  life.  For  a  little  while,  so  strong  was  the  mental 
impression  Vetch  had  made  on  her,  she  saw  his  image 
even  while  she  thought  the  name  of  John  Benham. 
Then,  with  an  effort  of  will,  she  put  the  Governor  and 
all  that  he  had  said  out  of  her  mind.  After  all,  how 
little  would  she  ever  see  of  him  now — how  seldom  would 
their  paths  cross  in  the  future!  A  strange  and  inter- 


A  LITTLE  LIGHT  ON  HUMAN  NATURE  225 

esting  man,  a  man  who  had,  in  one  instant  of  mental 
sympathy,  stirred  something  within  her  heart  that  no 
one,  not  even  Kent  Page,  had  ever  awakened  be 
fore.  For  that  one  instant  a  ripple,  nothing  more, 
had  moved  on  the  face  of  the  deep — of  the  deep  which 
was  so  ancient  that  it  was  older  even  than  the  blood 
of  her  race.  Then  the  ripple  passed  and  the  sunny 
stillness  settled  again  on  her  spirit. 

She  thought  of  John  Benham  easily  now;  and  while 
she  stood  there  a  quiet  happiness  shone  in  her  eyes. 
After  the  storm  and  stress  of  twenty  years,  life  in 
this  Indian  summer  of  the  emotions  was  like  an 
enclosed  garden  of  sweetness  and  bloom.  She  had  had 
enough  of  hunger  and  rapture  and  disappointment. 
Never  again  wTould  she  take  up  the  old  search  for  per 
fection,  for  the  starry  flower  of  the  heights.  Some 
thing  that  she  could  worship!  So  often  in  the  past  it 
had  seemed  to  her  that  she  missed  it  by  the  turn  of 
a  corner,  the  stop  on  the  roadside,  by  the  choice  of  a 
path  that  led  down  into  the  valley  instead  of  up  into 
the  hills.  So  often  her  god  had  revealed  the  feet  of 
clay  just  as  she  was  preparing  to  scatter  marigolds  on 
his  altar.  It  appeared  to  her  as  she  looked  back  on  the 
past,  that  life  had  been  merely  a  succession  of  great 
opportunities  that  one  did  not  grasp,  of  high  adventures 
that  one  never  followed. 

The  sound  of  a  motor  horn  interrupted  her  rev 
erie,  and  she  saw  that  a  big  open  car,  with  a  green 
body,  had  turned  the  corner  and  was  about  to  stop  at 
her  door.  An  instant  later  anger  burned  in  her  heart, 
for  she  saw  that  the  car  was  driven  by  Rose  Stribling. 
Even  a  glimpse  of  that  flaunting  pink  hollyhock  of  a 
woman  was  sufficient  to  ruffle  the  placid  current  of 


226  ONE  MAN  IN  HIS  TIME 

Corinna's  thoughts.  Could  she  never  forget?  Must 
she,  who  had  long  ago  ceased  to  love  the  man,  still  be 
enslaved  to  resentment  against  the  woman? 

With  an  ample  grace,  Mrs.  Stribling  descended  from 
the  car,  and  crossed  the  pavement  to  the  flagged  walk 
which  led  to  the  white  door  of  the  old  print  shop. 
In  her  trimly  fitting  dress  of  blue  serge,  with  her  small 
straw  hat  ornamented  by  stiff  black  quills,  she  looked 
fresher,  harder,  more  durably  glazed  than  ever.  A 
slight  excess,  too  deep  a  carmine  in  her  smooth  cheeks, 
too  high  a  polish  on  her  pale  gold  hair,  too  thick  a  dusk 
on  her  lashes;  this  was  the  only  flaw  that  one  could 
detect  in  her  appearance.  If  men  liked  that  sort  of 
thing,  and  they  apparently  did,  Corinna  reflected, 
then  they  could  scarcely  complain  of  an  emphasis  on 
perfection. 

"I've  just  got  back,"  began  Rose  Stribling  in  a 
tone  as  soft  as  her  metallic  voice  could  produce.  "It's 
been  an  age  since  I've  seen  you — not  since  the  night 
of  that  stupid  dinner  at  the  Berkeleys',  and  I'm  so 
much  interested  in  the  news  I  have  heard." 

For  a  minute  Corinna  stared  at  her.  "Yes,  my 
shop  has  been  very  successful,"  she  answered,  after 
a  pause  in  which  she  tried  and  failed  to  think  of  a  reply 
that  would  sound  more  disdainful.  "If  you  are  looking 
for  prints,  I  can  show  you  some  very  good  ones." 

"Oh,  I  don't  mean  that."  Mrs.  Stribling  appeared 
genuinely  amused  by  the  mistake.  "I  am  not  look 
ing  for  prints — to  tell  the  truth  I  shouldn't  know  one 
if  I  saw  it.  I  mean  your  engagement,  of  course. 
There  isn't  anybody  in  the  world  who  admires  John 
Benham  more  than  I  do.  I  always  say  of  him  that  he 
is  the  only  man  I  know  who  will  sacrifice  himself 


A  LITTLE  LIGHT  ON  HUMAN  NATURE  227 

for  a  principle.  All  his  splendid  record  in  the  army — 
when  he  was  over  age  too — and  then  the  way  he  be 
haved  about  that  corporation!  I  never  understood 
just  why  he  did  it — I'm  sure  I  could  never  bring  myself 
to  refuse  so  much  money, — but  that  doesn't  keep  me 
from  admiring  him."  For  a  minute  she  looked  at 
Corinna  with  a  smile  which  seemed  as  permanent  as 
the  rest  of  her  surface,  while  she  discreetly  sharpened 
her  wits  for  the  stab  which  was  about  to  be  dealt. 
"I  can't  tell  you  how  surprised  I  was  to  hear  you  had 
announced  your  engagement.  You  know  we  were  so 
sure  that  he  was  going  to  marry  Alice  Rokeby  after 
she  got  her  divorce.  Of  course  nobody  knew.  It  was 
just  gossip,  and  you  and  I  both  know  how  absurd 
gossip  can  be." 

So  this  was  why  she  had  stopped!  Corinna  flinched 
from  the  thrust  even  while  she  told  herself  that  there 
was  no  shadow  of  truth  in  the  old  rumour,  that  malice 
alone  had  prompted  Rose  Stribling  to  repeat  it.  In 
a  woman  like  that,  an  incorrigible  coquette,  every  rela 
tion  with  her  own  sex  would  be  edged  with  malice. 

"Well,  I  just  stopped  to  wish  you  happiness.  I 
must  go  now,  but  I'll  come  again,  when  I  have  time, 
and  look  at  your  shop.  Such  a  funny  idea — a  shop, 
with  all  the  money  you've  got!  But  no  idea  seems  too 
funny  for  people  to-day.  And  that  reminds  me  of  the 
Governor.  Have  you  seen  the  Governor  again  since 
the  evening  we  dined  with  him?" 

Her  turn  had  come,  and  Corinna,  for  she  was  very 
human,  planted  the  sting  without  mercy.  "Oh,  very 
often.  He  was  here  a  few  minutes  ago." 

"Then  it's  true?  Somebody  told  me  he  admired  you 
so  much." 


ONE  MAN  IN  HIS  TIME 

Corinna  smiled  blandly.  "I  hope  he  does.  We  are 
great  friends."  Would  there  always  be  women  like 
that  in  the  world,  she  asked  herself — women  whose 
horizon  ended  with  the  beginning  of  sex?  It  was  a 
feminine  type  that  seemed  to  her  as  archaic  as  some 
reptilian  bird  of  the  primeval  forests.  How  long  would 
it  be,  she  wondered,  before  it  would  survive  only  in 
the  dry  bones  of  genealogical  scandals?  As  she  looked 
after  Rose  Stribling's  bright  green  car,  darting  like 
some  gigantic  dragon-fly  up  the  street,  her  lips  quivered 
with  scorn  and  disgust.  "I  wonder  if  she  thought  I 
believed  her?"  she  said  to  herself  in  a  whisper.  "I 
wonder  if  she  thought  she  could  hurt  me?"  , 

The  sunshine  was  in  her  eyes,  and  she  was  about  to 
turn  and  go  back  into  the  shop,  when  she  saw  that 
Alice  Rokeby  was  coming  toward  her  with  a  slow  drag 
ging  step,  as  if  she  were  mentally  and  bodily  tired. 
The  lace- work  of  shadows  fell  over  her  like  a  veil;  and 
high  above  her  head  the  early  buds  of  a  tulip  tree 
made  a  mosaic  of  green  and  yellow  lotus  cups  against 
the  Egyptian  blue  of  the  sky.  Framed  in  the  vivid 
colours  of  spring  she  had  the  look  of  a  flower  that  has 
been  blighted  by  frost. 

"How  ill,  how  very  ill  she  looks,"  thought  Corinna, 
with  an  impulse  of  sympathy.  "I  wish  she  would 
come  in  and  rest.  I  wish  she  would  let  me  help  her." 

For  an  instant  the  violet  eyes,  with  their  vague 
wistfulness,  their  mute  appeal,  looked  straight  into 
Corinna's;  and  in  that  instant  an  inscrutable  expression 
quivered  in  Alice  Rokeby's  face,  as  if  a  wan  light  had 
flickered  up  and  died  down  in  an  empty  room. 

"The  heat  is  too  much  for  you,"  said  Corinna  gently. 
"It  is  like  summer." 


A  LITTLE  LIGHT  ON  HUMAN  NATURE 

"Yes,  I  have  never  known  so  early  a  spring.  It  has 
come  and  gone  in  a  week." 

"You  look  tired,  and  your  furs  are  too  heavy. 
Won't  you  come  in  and  rest  until  my  car  comes?'* 

The  other  woman  shook  her  head.  She  was  still 
pretty,  for  hers  was  a  face  to  which  pallor  lent  the 
delicate  sweetness  of  a  white  rose-leaf. 

"  It  is  only  a  block  or  two  farther.  I  am  going  home," 
she  answered  in  a  low  voice. 

"Won't  you  come  to  my  shop  sometimes?  I  have 
missed  seeing  you  this  winter."  The  words  were 
spoken  sincerely,  for  Corinna's  heart  was  open  to  all 
the  world  but  Rose  Stribling. 

"Thank  you.  How  lovely  your  cedars  are!"  The 
wan  light  shone  again  in  Alice  Rokeby's  face.  Then 
she  threw  her  fur  stole  from  her  shoulders  as  if  she  were 
fainting  under  the  weight  of  it,  and  passed  on,  with  her 
dragging  step,  through  the  lengthening  shadows  on 
the  pavement. 


CHAPTER  XV 

CORINNA  OBSERVES 

YES,  Patty  was  in  love,  this  Corinna  decided  after 
a  single  glance.  The  girl  appeared  to  have  changed 
miraculously  over-night,  for  her  hard  brightness  had 
melted  in  the  warmth  of  some  glowing  flame  that 
burned  at  her  heart.  Never  had  she  looked  so  Ariel- 
like  and  elusive;  never  had  she  brought  so  hauntingly 
to  Corinna's  memory  the  loveliness  of  youth  and  spring 
that  is  vivid  and  fleeting. 

"Can  it  be  that  Stephen  is  really  in  earnest?"  asked 
the  older  woman  of  her  disturbed  heart;  and  the  next 
instant,  shaking  her  wise  head,  she  added,  "Poor  little 
redbird!  What  does  she  know  of  life  outside  of  a 
cedar  tree?" 

At  luncheon  the  Governor,  in  an  effort  to  hide  some 
perfectly  evident  anxiety,  over-shot  the  mark  as  usual, 
Corinna  reflected.  It  was  his  way,  she  had  observed, 
to  cover  a  mental  disturbance  with  pretended  hilarity. 
There  was,  as  always  when  he  was  unnatural  and  ill 
at  ease,  a  touch  of  coarseness  in  his  humour,  a  gro 
tesque  exaggeration  of  his  rhetorical  style.  With  his 
mind  obviously  distracted  he  told  several  anecdotes  of 
dubious  wit;  and  while  he  related  them  Miss  Spencer  sat 
primly  silent  with  her  gaze  on  her  plate.  Only  Corinna 
laughed,  as  she  laughed  at  any  honest  jest  however  out 
of  place.  After  all,  if  you  began  to  judge  men  by  the 
quality  of  their  jokes  where  would  it  lead  you? 

230 


CORINNA  OBSERVES  231 

Patty,  with  her  eyes  drooping  beneath  her  black 
lashes,  sat  lost  in  a  day  dream.  She  dressed  now, 
by  Corinna' s  advice,  in  straight  slim  gowns  of  serge 
or  velvet;  and  to-day  she  was  wearing  a  scant  little 
frock  of  blue  serge,  with  a  wide  white  collar  that  gave 
her  the  look  of  a  delicate  boy.  There  were  wonderful 
possibilities  in  the  girl,  Corinna  mused,  looking  her 
over.  She  had  not  a  single  beautiful  feature,  except 
her  remarkable  eyes;  and  yet  the  softness  and  vague 
ness  of  her  face  lent  a  poetic  and  impressionistic  charm 
to  her  appearance.  "In  that  dress  she  looks  as  if  she 
had  stepped  out  of  the  Middle  Ages,  and  might  step 
back  again  at  any  minute,"  thought  Corinna.  "I 
wonder  if  I  can  be  mistaken  in  Stephen,  and  if  he  is 
seriously  in  love  with  her?" 

"Patty  is  grooming  me  for  the  White  House," 
remarked  Vetch,  with  his  hearty  laugh  which  sounded 
a  trifle  strained  and  affected  to-day.  "She  thinks  it 
probable  that  I  shall  be  President." 

"Why  not,  Father?"  asked  Patty  loyally.  "They 
couldn't  find  a  better  one." 

"Do  you  hear  that?"  demanded  the  Governor  in 
delight.  "That  is  what  one  coming  voter  thinks  of 


me." 


"And  a  good  many  others,  I  haven't  a  doubt," 
replied  Corinna,  with  her  cheerful  friendliness.  Through 
the  windows  of  the  dining-room  she  could  see  the  long 
grape  arbour  and  the  gray  boughs  of  the  crepe  myrtle 
trees  in  the  garden. 

She  had  dressed  herself  carefully  for  the  occasion 
in  a  black  gown  that  followed  closely  the  lines  of  her 
figure.  Her  beauty,  which  a  painter  in  Europe  had 
once  compared  to  a  lamp,  was  still  so  radiant  that  it 


232  ONE  MAN  IN  HIS  TIME 

seemed  to  drain  the  colour  and  light  from  her  surround 
ings.  Even  Patty,  with  her  fresh  youth,  lost  a  little 
of  her  vividness  beside  the  glowing  maturity  of  the 
other  woman.  When  Corinna  had  accepted  the  girl's 
invitation,  she  had  resolved  that  she  would  do  her  best; 
that,  however  tiresome  it  was,  she  would  "carry  it 
off."  Always  a  match  for  any  situation  that  did  not 
include  Kent  Page  or  a  dangerous  emotion,  she  felt 
entirely  competent  to  "manage,"  as  Mrs.  Culpeper 
would  have  said,  the  most  radical  of  Governors.  She 
liked  the  man  in  spite  of  his  errors;  she  was  sin 
cerely  attached  to  Patty;  and  their  artless  respect 
for  her  opinion  gave  her  a  sense  of  power  which  she 
told  herself  merrily  was  "almost  political."  Though 
the  Governor  might  be  without  the  rectitude  which 
both  Benham  and  Stephen  regarded  as  fundamental, 
she  perceived  clearly  that,  even  if  Vetch  were  lacking 
in  the  particular  principle  involved,  he  was  not  devoid 
of  some  moral  excellence  which  filled  not  ignobly  the 
place  where  principle  should  have  been.  She  was  pre 
pared  to  concede  that  the  Governor  was  a  man  of  many 
defects  and  a  single  virtue;  but  this  single  virtue  im 
pressed  her  as  more  tremendous  than  any  combination 
of  qualities  that  she  had  ever  encountered.  She  ad 
mitted  that,  from  Benham's  point  of  view,  Vetch  was 
probably  not  to  be  trusted;  yet  she  felt  instinctively 
that  she  could  trust  him.  The  two  men,  she  told  her 
self  tolerantly,  were  as  far  apart  as  the  poles.  That 
the  cardinal  virtue  Vetch  possessed  in  abundance  was 
the  one  in  which  Benham  was  inadequate  had  not 
occurred  to  her;  for,  at  the  moment,  she  could  not  bring 
herself  to  acknowledge  that  any  admirable  trait  was  ab 
sent  from  the  man  whom  she  intended  to  marry. 


CORINNA  OBSERVES  233 

"You  would  make  a  splendid  president,  Father," 
Patty  was  insisting. 

"Well,  I'm  inclined  to  think  that  you're  right," 
Vetch  responded  whimsically,  "but  you'll  have  to 
convince  a  few  others  of  that,  I  reckon,  before  we  begin 
to  plan  for  the  White  House.  First  of  all,  you'll  have 
to  convince  the  folks  that  started  the  boom  to  make  me 
Governor.  It  looks  as  if  some  of  them  were  already 
thinking  that  they'd  made  a  mistake." 

"Oh,  that  horrid  Julius,"  said  Patty  lightly.  "He 
doesn't  matter  a  bit,  does  he,  Mrs.  Page?" 

"Not  to  me,"  laughed  Corinna,  "but  I'm  not  a 
politician.  Politicians  have  queer  preferences." 

"Or  queer  needs,"  suggested  Vetch.  "You  don't 
like  Gershom,  I  infer;  but  when  you  are  ready  to 
sweep,  remember  you  mustn't  be  over-squeamish  about 
your  broom." 

"I  have  heard,"  rejoined  Corinna,  still  laughing, 
"that  a  new  broom  sweeps  clean.  Why  not  try  a  new 
one  next  time?" 

"You  mean  when  I  run  for  the  Presidency?"  Was 
he  joking,  or  was  there  an  undercurrent  of  seriousness 
in  his  words? 

They  had  risen  from  the  table;  and  as  they  passed 
through  the  long  reception-room,  which  stretched  be 
tween  the  dining-room  and  the  wide  front  hall,  Abijah 
brought  the  information  that  Mr.  Gershom  awaited 
the  Governor  in  the  library. 

"I  shall  probably  be  kept  there  most  of  the  after 
noon,"  said  Vetch,  and  she  could  see  that  his  regret 
was  not  assumed.  "The  next  time  you  come  I  hope 
I  shall  have  better  luck."  Then  he  hurried  off  to 
his  appointment,  while  Corinna  stopped  at  the  foot 


234  ONE  MAN  IN  HIS  TIME 

of  the  staircase  and  followed  with  her  gaze  the  slender 
balustrade  of  mahogany.  "If  they  had  only  left 
everything  as  it  was!"  she  thought;  and  then  she  said 
aloud:  "It  is  so  lovely  out  of  doors.  Get  your  hat 
and  we'll  walk  awhile  in  the  Square.  I  can  talk  to 
you  better  there,  and  I  want  to  talk  to  you  seriously." 

After  the  girl  had  disappeared  up  the  quaint  flight  of 
stairs,  Corinna  stood  gazing  meditatively  at  the  bar  of 
sunlight  over  the  front  door.  She  was  thinking  of  what 
she  should  say  to  Patty — how  could  she  possibly  warn 
the  girl  without  wounding  her? — and  it  was  very 
gradually  that  she  became  aware  of  raised  voices  in  the 
library  and  the  hard,  short  sound  of  words  that  beat 
like  hail  into  her  consciousness. 

"I  tell  you  we  can  put  it  over  all  right  if  you  will  only 
have  the  sense  to  keep  your  hands  off!"  stormed 
Gershom  in  a  tone  that  he  was  trying  in  vain  to  subdue. 

"Are  you  sure  they  will  strike?" 

"Dead  sure.  You  may  bet  your  bottom  dollar  on 
that.  We  can  tie  up  every  road  in  this  state  within 
twenty -four  hours  after  the  order  goes  out " 

Arousing  herself  with  a  start,  Corinna  opened  the 
door  and  went  out.  She  could  not  have  helped  hearing 
what  Gershom  had  said;  and  after  all  this  was  nothing 
more  than  a  repetition  of  the  plain  facts  that  Vetch  had 
already  confided  to  her.  But  why,  she  wondered,  did 
they  persist  in  holding  their  conferences  at  the  top  of 
their  voices? 

In  a  few  minutes  Patty  came  down,  wearing  a  sailor 
hat  which  made  her  look  more  than  ever  like  an  attrac 
tive  boy;  and  they  descended  the  steps  together,  and 
strolled  past  the  fountain  of  the  white  heron  to  the 
gate  in  front  of  the  house.  Turning  to  the  left  as 


CORINNA  OBSERVES  235 

they  entered  the  Square,  they  walked  slowly  down  the 
wide  brick  pavement,  which  trailed  by  the  library 
and  a  larger  fountain,  to  the  dingy  business  street 
beyond  the  iron  fence  at  the  foot  of  the  hill.  As  they 
went  by,  a  woman,  who  was  feeding  the  squirrels  from 
one  of  the  benches,  lifted  her  face  to  stare  at  them 
curiously,  and  something  vaguely  familiar  in  her 
features  caused  Corinna  to  pause  and  glance  back. 
Where  had  she  seen  her  before?  And  how  ill,  how 
hopelessly  stricken,  the  haggard  face  looked  under  the 
thick  mass  of  badly  dyed  hair.  The  next  minute  she 
remembered  that  the  woman  had  lodged  for  a  week  or 
two  above  the  old  print  shop,  and  that  only  yesterday 
Stephen  had  asked  about  her.  Poor  creature,  what  a 
life  she  must  have  had  to  have  wrecked  her  so  utterly. 

In  the  golden-green  light  of  afternoon  the  Square  was 
looking  peaceful  and  lovely.  For  the  hour  a  magic 
veil  had  dropped  over  the  nakedness  of  its  outlines, 
and  the  bare  buildings  and  bare  walks  were  touched 
with  the  glamour  of  spring.  Soft,  pale  shadows  of 
waving  branches  moved  back  and  forth,  like  the  ghosts 
of  dreams,  over  the  grassy  hill  and  the  brick  pave 
ments. 

Turning  to  the  girl  beside  her,  Corinna  looked 
thoughtfully  at  the  fresh  young  face  above  the  white 
collar  which  framed  the  lovely  line  of  the  throat. 
Under  the  brim  of  the  sailor  hat  Patty's  eyes  were  dewy 
with  happiness 

"Are  you  happy,  Patty?" 

"Oh,  yes,"  rejoined  Patty  fervently,  "so  much  hap 
pier  than  I  ever  was  in  my  life!" 

"I  am  glad,"  said  the  older  woman  tenderly.  Then 
taking  the  girl's  hand  in  hers  she  added  earnestly: 


236  ONE  MAN  IN  HIS  TIME 

"But,  my  dear,  we  must  be  careful,  you  and  I,  not  to 
let  our  happiness  depend  too  much  upon  one  thing. 
We  must  scatter  it  as  much  as  we  can." 

"I  can't  do  that,"  answered  Patty  simply.  "I  am 
not  made  that  way.  I  pour  everything  into  one 
thought." 

"I  know,"  responded  Corinna  sadly,  and  she  did. 
She  had  lived  through  it  all  long  ago  in  what  seemed  to 
her  now  another  life. 

For  a  moment  she  was  silent;  and  when  she  spoke 
again  there  was  an  anxious  sound  in  her  voice  and  an 
anxious  look  in  the  eyes  she  lifted  to  the  arching  boughs 
of  the  sycamore.  "Do  you  like  Stephen  very  much, 
Patty?"  she  asked. 

Though  Corinna  did  not  see  it,  a  glow  that  was  like 
the  flush  of  dawn  broke  over  the  girl's  sensitive  face. 
"He  is  so  superior,"  she  began  as  if  she  were  repeating  a 
phrase  she  had  learned  to  speak;  then  in  a  low  voice 
she  added  impulsively,  "Oh,  very  much!" 

"He  is  a  dear  boy,"  returned  Corinna,  really  troubled. 
"Do  you  see  him  often?"  Now,  since  she  felt  she  had 
won  the  girl's  confidence,  her  purpose  appeared  more 
difficult  than  ever. 

"Very  often,"  replied  Patty  in  a  thrilling  tone.  "He 
comes  every  day."  The  luminous  candour,  the  fearless 
sincerity  of  Gideon  Vetch,  seemed  to  envelop  her  as  she 
answered. 

"Do  you  think  he  cares  for  you,  dear?"  asked 
Corinna  softly. 

"Oh,  yes."  The  response  was  unhesitating.  "I 
know  it." 

How  naive,  how  touchingly  ingenuous,  the  girl  was 
in  spite  of  her  experience  of  life  and  of  the  uglier  side  of 


CORINNA  OBSERVES  237 

politicians.  No  girl  in  Comma's  circle  would  ever  have 
appeared  so  confiding,  so  innocent,  so  completely  be 
neath  the  spell  of  a  sentimental  illusion.  The  girls  that 
Corinna  knew  might  be  unguarded  about  everything 
else  on  earth;  but  even  the  most  artless  one  of  them, 
even  Margaret  Blair,  would  have  learned  by  instinct  to 
guard  the  secret  of  her  emotions. 

"Has  he  asked  you  to  marry  him?"  Corinna's 
voice  wavered  over  the  question,  which  seemed  to  her 
cruel;  but  Patty  met  it  with  transparent  simplicity. 

"Not  yet,"  she  answered,  lifting  her  shining  eyes  to 
the  sky,  "but  he  will.  How  can  he  help  it  when  he 
cares  for  me  so  much?" 

"If  he  hasn't  yet,  my  dear" — while  the  words  dropped 
from  her  reluctant  lips,  Corinna  felt  as  if  she  were 
inflicting  a  physical  stab, — "how  can  you  tell  that  he 
cares  so  much  for  you?  " 

"I  wasn't  sure  until  yesterday,"  replied  Patty,  with 
beaming  lucidity,  "but  I  knew  yesterday  because — be 
cause  he  showed  it  so  plainly." 

With  a  lovely  protective  movement  the  older  woman 
put  her  arm  about  the  girl's  shoulders.  "You  may  be 
right — but,  oh,  don't  trust  too  much,  Patty,"  she 
pleaded,  with  the  wisdom  that  the  years  bring  and  take 
away.  "Life  is  so  uncertain — fine  impulses — even 
love — yes,  love  most  of  all — is  so  uncertain " 

"Of  course  you  feel  that  way,"  responded  the  girl, 
sympathetic  but  incredulous.  "How  could  you  help 
it?" 

After  this  what  could  Corinna  answer?  She  knew 
Stephen,  she  told  herself,  and  she  knew  that  she  could 
trust  him.  She  believed  that  he  was  capable  of  gener 
ous  impulses;  but  she  doubted  if  an  impulse,  however 


238  ONE  MAN  IN  HIS  TIME 

generous,  could  sweep  away  the  inherited  sentiments 
which  encrusted  his  outlook  on  life.  In  spite  of  his 
youth,  he  was  in  reality  so  old.  He  was  as  old  as 
that  indestructible  entity,  the  spirit  of  race — as  that 
impalpable  strain  which  had  existed  in  every  Culpeper, 
and  in  all  the  Culpepers  together,  from  the  beginning. 
It  was  not,  she  realized  plainly,  such  an  anachronism 
as  a  survival  of  the  aristocratic  tradition.  Deeper  than 
this,  it  had  its  roots  not  in  belief  but  in  instinct — in  the 
bone  and  fibre  of  Stephen's  character.  It  was  a  part  of 
that  motive  power  which  impelled  him  in  the  direction 
of  the  beaten  road,  of  the  established  custom,  of  things 
as  they  have  always  been  in  the  past. 

Her  kind  heart  was  troubled;  yet  before  the  happi 
ness  in  the  girl's  face  what  could  she  say  except  that  she 
hoped  Stephen  was  as  fine  as  Patty  believed  him  to  be? 
"You  may  be  right.  I  hope  so  with  all  my  heart;  but, 
oh,  my  dear,  try  not  to  care  too  much.  It  never  does 
any  good  to  care  too  much."  She  stooped  and  kissed 
the  girl's  cheek.  "There,  my  car  is  at  the  door,  and  I 
must  hurry  back  to  the  shop.  I'll  do  anything  in  the 
world  that  I  can  for  you,  Patty,  anything  in  the 
world." 

As  the  car  rolled  through  the  gate  and  down  the  wide 
drive  to  the  Washington  monument,  Patty  stood  gazing 
after  it,  with  a  burning  moisture  in  her  eyes  and  a  lump 
in  her  throat.  Terror  had  seized  her  in  an  instant, 
terror  of  unhappiness,  of  missing  the  one  thing  in  life  on 
which  she  had  passionately  set  her  heart.  What  had 
Mrs.  Page  meant  by  her  questions?  Had  she  intended 
them  as  a  warning?  And  why  should  she  have  thought 
it  necessary  to  warn  her  against  caring  too  much  for 
Stephen? 


CORINNA  OBSERVES  239 

The  girl  had  started  to  enter  the  house  when,  re 
membering  suddenly  that  Gershom  was  still  there,  she 
turned  hurriedly  away  from  the  door,  and  walked  back 
down  the  brick  pavement  to  the  fountain  beyond  the 
library.  The  squirrels  still  scampered  over  the  walk; 
the  thirsty  sparrows  were  still  drinking;  the  few  loungers 
on  the  benches  still  stared  at  her  with  dull  and  incurious 
eyes.  Not  a  cloud  stained  the  intense  blue  of  the  sky; 
and  over  the  bright  grass  on  the  hillside  the  sunshine 
quivered  like  an  immense  swarm  of  bees. 

As  she  approached  the  fountain  where  she  had  first 
met  Stephen,  it  seemed  to  her  that  a  romantic  light, 
a  visionary  enchantment,  fell  over  this  one  spot  of 
ground,  and  divided  it  by  some  magic  circle  from  every 
other  place  in  the  world.  The  crude  iron  railing,  the 
bare  gravel,  the  ugly  spouting  fountain  which  was 
stripped  of  every  leaf  or  blade  of  grass — these  things 
appeared  to  her  through  an  indescribable  glamour,  as 
if  they  stood  there  as  the  visible  gateway  to  some  in 
visible  garden  of  dreams.  Whenever  she  looked  at 
this  ordinary  spot  of  earth  a  breathless  realization  of 
the  wonder  and  delight  of  life  rushed  over  her.  She 
knew  nothing  of  the  mental  processes  by  which  these 
external  objects  were  associated  with  the  deepest  emo 
tions  of  the  heart.  Only  when  she  visited  this  place  that 
wave  of  happiness  swept  over  her;  and  she  lived  again 
as  vividly  as  she  lived  in  the  moments  when  Stephen 
was  with  her  and  she  was  looking  into  his  eyes. 

His  voice  called  her  while  she  stood  there;  and  turn 
ing  quickly,  she  saw  that  he  was  coming  toward  her 
down  the  walk.  Immediately  the  loungers  on  the  benches 
vanished  by  magic;  the  murmur  of  the  fountain  became 
like  the  music  of  harps;  and  the  sunshine  on  the  grassy 


£40  ONE  MAN  IN  HIS  TIME 

hill  was  alive  with  the  quiver  of  wings.  As  she  went 
toward  him  she  was  aware  of  the  blue  sky,  of  the  golden 
green  of  the  trees,  of  the  happy  sounds  of  the  birds, 
and  over  all,  as  if  it  were  outside  of  herself,  of  the  raptur 
ous  beating  of  her  own  heart. 

"I  was  looking  for  you,"  he  said  when  he  reached  her. 

"And  you  found  me  at  last."  Her  eyes  were  like 
wells  of  joy. 

"I'd  never  have  given  up  until  I  found  you."  The 
words  were  trivial;  but  it  was  the  things  he  said  without 
words  that  really  mattered.  Already  they  had  es 
tablished  a  communion  that  was  independent  of 
speech.  He  had  never  told  her  that  he  loved  her;  yet 
she  saw  it  in  every  glance  of  his  eyes  and  heard  it  in 
every  tone  of  his  voice. 

While  they  walked  slowly  up  the  hill  she  wondered 
trustingly  why,  when  he  had  told  her  so  plainly  in  every 
other  way  that  he  loved  her,  he  should  never  have  put  it 
into  words.  There  could  not  be  any  doubt  of  it ;  perhaps 
this  was  the  reason  he  hesitated.  The  present  was  so 
perfect  that  it  was  like  the  most  exquisite  hour  of  a  spring 
afternoon.  One  longed  to  hold  it  back  even  though  one 
knew  that  it  led  to  something  more  lovely  still. 

"Are  you  happy?"  she  asked,  and  wondered  if  he 
would  kiss  her  again  when  they  parted  as  he  had  kissed 
her  yesterday  in  the  dusk  of  the  hall? 

"Yes,  and  no."  He  drew  nearer  to  her.  "I  am  happy 
now  like  this — here  with  you — but  at  other  times  I  am 
troubled.  I  can't  see  my  way  clearly." 

"But  why  should  you?  Why  should  any  one  be 
troubled  when  it  is  so  easy  to  be  happy?" 

"Easy?"  He  laughed.  "If  life  were  only  as  simple 
as  that!" 


CORINNA  OBSERVES  241 

"It  is  if  one  knows  what  one  wants." 

"Well,  one  may  know  what  one  wants,  and  yet  not 
know  if  one  is  wise  in  wanting  it." 

"Oh,  wise!"  She  shook  her  head  with  an  impatient 
movement.  "Isn't  the  only  wisdom  to  be  happy  and 
kind?" 

He  looked  at  her  thoughtfully,  while  a  frown  drew  his 
straight  dark  eyebrows  together.  "If  you  wanted  a 
thing  with  all  your  heart,  and  yet  were  not  sure " 

Her  impatience  answered  him.  "I  couldn't  want  it 
with  all  my  heart  without  being  sure." 

"Sure  I  mean  that  it  is  best — best  for  every  one — not 
just  for  oneself " 

Her  laugh  was  like  a  song.  "Do  you  suppose  there 
has  ever  been  anything  since  the  world  began  that 
was  best  for  every  one?  If  I  knew  what  I  wanted  I 
shouldn't  ask  anything  more.  I  would  spread  my  wings 
and  fly  to  it." 

He  smiled.  "You  are  so  much  like  your  father  at 
times — even  in  the  things  that  you  say.  Yes,  I  suppose 
you  would  fly  to  it  because  you  have  been  trained  that 
way — to  be  direct  and  daring.  But  I  am  made  dif 
ferently.  Life  has  taught  me;  it  is  in  my  blood  and 
bone  to  stop  and  question,  to  look  so  long  that  at  last 
I  lose  the  will  to  choose,  or  to  leap.  There  are  some  of 
us  like  that,  you  know." 

"Perhaps,"  she  smiled.  "I  don't  know.  It  seems 
to  me  a  very  silly  way  to  be."  The  song  had  gone 
out  of  her  voice,  and  a  heaviness,  an  impalpable  fear, 
had  descended  again  on  her  heart.  Why  did  one's 
path  lead  always  through  mazes  of  uncertainty  and  dis 
appointment  instead  of  straight  onward  toward  one's 
desire?  A  passionate  impulse  seized  her  to  fight  for 


242  ONE  MAN  IN  HIS  TIME 

what  she  wanted,  to  grasp  the  fragile  opportunity 
before  it  eluded  her.  Yet  she  knew  that  fighting 
would  not  do  any  good.  She  could  do  nothing  while  her 
happiness  hung  on  a  thread.  She  could  do  nothing 
but  fold  her  hands  and  wait,  though  her  heart  burned 
hot  with  the  injustice  of  it,  and  she  longed  to  speak 
aloud  all  the  words  that  were  rising  to  her  tightly 
closed  lips. 

"Oh,  don't  you  see — can't  you  see?"  she  asked 
brokenly,  baring  her  heart  with  a  desperate  impulse. 
Her  eyes  were  drawing  him  toward  the  future;  and,  in 
the  deep  stillness  of  her  look,  it  seemed  to  him  that  she 
was  putting  forth  all  her  power  to  charm;  that  her 
youth  and  bloom  shed  a  sweetness  that  was  like  the 
fragrance  of  a  flower. 

For  an  instant  every  thought,  every  feeling,  sur 
rendered  to  her  appeal.  Then  his  face  changed  as 
abruptly  as  if  he  had  put  a  mask  over  his  features;  and 
glancing  back  over  her  shoulder,  she  saw  that  his 
mother  and  Margaret  Blair  were  walking  along  the 
concrete  pavement  under  the  few  old  linden  trees.  As 
they  approached  it  seemed  to  the  girl  that  Stephen 
turned  slowly  from  a  man  of  flesh  and  blood  into  a 
figure  of  granite.  In  one  instant  he  was  petrified  by  the 
force  of  tradition. 

"It  is  my  mother,"  he  said  in  a  low  voice.  "She  has 
not  been  in  the  Square  for  years.  I  was  telling  her 
yesterday  how  pretty  it  looks  in  the  spring."  He  went 
forward  with  an  embarrassed  air,  and  Mrs.  Culpeper 
laid  a  firm,  possessive  touch  on  his  arm. 

"I  thought  a  little  stroll  might  do  me  good,"  she  ex 
plained.  "  The  car  is  waiting  across  the  street  at  Doctor 
Bradley's."  Then  she  held  out  her  free  hand  to  Patty, 


CORINNA  OBSERVES  243 

with  a  smile  which,  the  girl  said  afterward  to  Corinna, 
looked  as  if  it  had  frozen  on  her  lips.  "Stephen  speaks 
of  you  very  often,  Miss  Vetch,"  she  said.  "He  talks  a 
great  deal  about  his  friends,  doesn't  he,  Margaret?" 

Margaret  assented  with  a  charming  manner;  and  the 
two  girls  stood  looking  guardedly  into  each  other's  eyes. 
"She  is  attractive,"  thought  Margaret,  not  unkindly,  for 
she  was  never  unkind,  "but  I  can't  understand  just  what 
he  sees  in  her."  And  at  the  same  moment  Patty  was 
saying  to  herself,  "Oh,  she  is  everything  that  he  admires 
and  nothing  that  he  enjoys." 

Aloud  the  elder  girl  said  casually,  "It  is  so  quaint 
living  down  here  in  the  Square,  isn't  it?" 

"But  it  is  too  far  away  from  everything,"  replied 
Stephen  hurriedly.  "It  must  be  very  different  from 
what  it  was  when  you  came  to  balls  here,  Mother." 

"Very,"  answered  Mrs.  Culpeper  stiffly  because  the 
cold  hard  smile  was  still  on  her  lips. 

"It  doesn't  seem  far  away  when  you  are  used  to  it," 
remarked  Patty  in  a  spiritless  tone.  The  vague  heavi 
ness,  like  a  black  cloud  covered  her  heart  again.  She 
was  jealous  of  Margaret,  jealous  of  her  sweet,  pale  face, 
of  her  trusting  blue  eyes,  of  the  delicate  distinction  that 
showed  in  the  turn  of  her  head,  in  her  fragile  hands,  in 
the  lovely  liquid  sound  of  her  voice. 

"  Cousin  Corinna  has  promised  to  bring  me  to  see  you," 
said  Margaret  in  her  kind  and  gentle  way. 

"I  hope  you'll  come,"  replied  Patty  politely;  but  in 
her  thoughts  she  added,  "I  hope  you  won't.  I  hope 
I'll  never  see  you  again."  She  couldn't  be  natural;  she 
couldn't  be  anything  but  stiff  and  awkward;  and  she  was 
aware  all  the  time  that  Stephen  was  as  embarrassed 
as  she  was.  All  the  things  that  she  must  fight  against, 


244  ONE  MAN  IN  HIS  TIME 

that  she  must  triumph  over,  were  embodied  in  that 
small  black  figure  with  the  ivory  face,  so  inelastic,  so 
unbending,  so  secure  in  its  inherited  authority.  There 
was  war  between  her  and  Stephen's  mother;  and  she 
stood  alone,  with  only  her  undaunted  spirit  to  sup 
port  her,  while  on  the  opposite  side  were  entrenched 
all  the  immovable  dead  ranks  of  the  generations.  "I 
shall  fight  it  out,"  thought  the  girl  bitterly.  "I  don't  care 
what  she  thinks  of  me.  I  shall  fight  it  out  to  the  end." 

With  her  hand  on  Stephen's  arm,  Mrs.  Culpeper 
turned  slowly  away.  "I  feel  a  little  tired,"  she  ex 
plained  politely  to  Patty,  "so  I  am  sure  that  you  won't 
mind  yielding  to  an  infirm  old  woman,  and  will  let  my 
son  help  me  back  to  the  car." 

"Oh,  I  don't  mind,"  replied  Patty,  with  gay  indiffer 
ence. 

"I'll  see  you  very  soon,"  said  Stephen;  and  it  seemed 
to  the  girl  as  she  watched  him  walking  toward  the 
Washington  monument  that  he  looked  as  old  and  as 
tired  as  his  mother. 

Of  course  he  was  obliged  to  go.  There  wasn't  any 
thing  else  that  he  could  do,  and  yet — and  yet — as  Patty 
gazed  after  the  three  slowly  moving  figures,  she  felt 
that  a  cold  hand  had  reached  out  of  the  sunshine  and 
clutched  her  heart. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

THE  FEAR  OF  LIFE 

STEPHEN  had  intended  to  go  back  as  soon  as  he  had 
put  his  mother  into  the  car;  but  she  clung  so  tightly  to 
his  arm,  and  there  was  something  so  appealing  in  her 
fragile  dependence,  that,  almost  without  realizing  it,  he 
found  that  he  was  sitting  in  front  of  her,  and  that  she  was 
taking  him  down  to  his  office. 

"We  will  leave  you  and  go  back,  Stephen,"  she  said, 
while  a  look  of  faintness  spread  over  her  features.  "I 
feel  as  if  one  of  my  heart  attacks  might  be  coming  on." 

"Wouldn't  you  rather  I  went  home  with  you?"  he 
inquired  solicitously. 

His  mother  shook  her  head  and  reached  feebly  for 
Margaret's  hand.  "Margaret  will  take  care  of  me,"  she 
replied  in  the  weak  voice  before  which  her  husband  and 
her  children  had  learned  to  tremble. 

As  he  sat  there  uneasily  in  the  stuffy  car,  which  smelt 
of  camphor  and  reminded  him  of  a  hearse,  he  was 
threatened  by  that  familiar  sensation  of  oppression,  of 
closing  walls.  Would  he  ever  again  be  free  from  this 
impalpable  terror,  from  this  dread  of  being  shut  within 
a  space  so  small  that  he  must  smother  if  he  did  not 
escape?  And  not  only  places  but  persons,  as  he  had 
found  long  ago,  persons  with  closed  souls,  with  narrow 
minds,  produced  in  him  this  feeling  of  physical  suffo 
cation.  Margaret,  with  her  serenity,  her  changeless 
sweetness,  affected  him  precisely  as  he  was  affected  by 

245 


246  ONE  MAN  IN  HIS  TIME 

the  stained  glass  windows  of  a  church.  He  felt  that  he 
should  stifle  unless  he  could  break  away  into  a  place 
where  there  were  winds  and  blown  shadows  and  pure 
sunshine.  He  admired  her;  he  might  have  loved  her;  but 
she  smothered  him  like  that  rich  and  heavy  wave  of  the 
past  from  which  he  was  still  struggling  to  free  himself. 
For  he  knew  now  that  it  was  not  the  past  he  wanted; 
it  was  the  future.  Above  all  things  he  needed  release, 
he  needed  deliverance;  and  yet  he  knew,  more  surely 
at  this  moment  than  ever  before,  that  he  was  not  free, 
that  he  was  still  in  chains,  still  the  servant,  not  the 
master,  of  tradition.  He  lacked  the  courage  of  life, 
the  will  to  feel  and  to  live.  Only  through  emotion, 
only  through  some  courageous  adventure  of  the  spirit, 
only  through  daring  to  be  human,  could  he  reach 
liberation;  and  yet  he  could  not  dare;  he  could  not  let 
himself  go;  he  could  not  lose  his  life  in  order  that  he 
might  find  it.  Corinna  was  right,  he  felt,  when  she 
called  him  a  prig.  She  was  right  though  he  hated 
priggishness,  though  he  longed  to  be  natural  and  human, 
to  let  himself  be  swept  away  on  the  tide  of  some  irre 
sistible  impulse.  He  longed  to  dare,  and  yet  he  had 
never  dared.  He  longed  to  take  risks,  and  yet  he 
studied  every  step  of  the  road.  He  longed  to  be  un 
conventional,  and  yet  he  would  have  died  rather  than 
wear  a  red  flower  in  his  buttonhole.  The  thought  of 
Patty  rushed  over  him  like  the  wind  at  dawn  or  the 
light  of  the  sunrise.  There  was  deliverance;  there  was 
freedom  of  spirit!  She  was  the  impulse  he  dared  not 
follow,  the  risk  he  dared  not  take,  the  red  flower  he 
dared  not  wear. 

"What  lovely  eyes  Miss  Vetch  has,"  Margaret  was 
saying.     "Don't  you  think  so,  Cousin  Harriet?" 


THE  FEAR  OF  LIFE  247 

Mrs.  Culpeper  sniffed  at  her  bottle  of  smelling-salts. 
"She  seemed  to  me  very  ordinary,"  she  answered  stiffly. 
"How  could  Gideon  Vetch's  daughter  be  anything 
else?" 

"Yes,  it's  a  pity  about  her  father,"  admitted  Mar 
garet  placidly.  "If  what  Mr.  Benham  thinks  is  true,  I 
suppose  the  Governor  has  agreed  not  to  interfere  in  this 
dreadful  strike." 

Again  Mrs.  Culpeper  sniffed.  "Every  one  knows  he 
is  merely  a  tool  in  the  hands  of  those  people,"  she  said. 

In  the  weeks  that  followed  Stephen  heard  his  mother's 
opinion  repeated  wherever  he  went.  Everywhere  the 
strike  was  discussed,  and  everywhere,  in  the  Culpeper's 
circle,  Gideon  Vetch  and  his  policies  were  repudiated. 
It  was  generally  believed  that  the  strike  would  be  called, 
and  that  the  Governor  had  been,  as  old  General  Plum- 
mer  neatly  put  it,  "bought  off  by  the  riff-raff."  There 
were  those,  and  the  General  was  among  them,  who 
thought  that  Vetch  had  been  definitely  threatened  by 
the  labour  leaders.  There  were  open  charges  of 
"shady  dealings"  in  the  newspapers;  hints  that  he  had 
got  the  office  of  Governor  "by  striking  a  bargain"  with 
the  faction  whose  tool  he  had  become.  "Don't  tell 
me,  sir,  that  they  didn't  put  him  there  because  they 
knew  they  could  count  on  him!"  roared  old  Powhatan, 
with  the  accumulated  truculence  of  eighty  quarrel 
some  years.  Of  course  the  General  was  intemperate; 
but,  as  the  Judge  observed  facetiously,  "it  was  re 
freshing,  in  these  days  when  there  was  nothing  for 
decent  people  to  drink,  to  find  that  intemperance  was 
still  possible.  With  the  General  fuming  over  corrup 
tion  and  Benham  preaching  morality,  there  is  no  need," 
he  added,  "for  us  to  despair  of  virtue." 


248  ONE  MAN  IN  HIS  TIME 

For  the  people  who  condemned  Vetch  were  quite  as 
emphatic  in  praise  of  John  Benham ;  and  in  these  weeks 
of  unrest  and  anxiety,  Corinna's  face  was  glowing  with 
pride  and  pleasure.  That  Benham,  in  his  unselfish 
service,  was  leading  the  way,  no  one  doubted.  Tireless, 
unrewarded, — for  it  was  admitted  by  those  who  es 
teemed  him  most  that  he  was  never  really  in  touch  with 
the  crowd,  that  his  zeal  awakened  no  human  response, 
— he  had  sacrificed  his  private  practice  in  order  to  de 
vote  himself  day  and  night  to  averting  the  strike. 
Stephen,  inspired  to  hero  worship,  asked  himself  again 
what  the  difference  was,  beyond  simple  personal  rec 
titude,  between  Vetch  and  Benham?  Vetch,  lacking, 
so  far  as  the  young  man  knew,  every  public  virtue 
except  the  human  touch  which  enkindles  either  the 
souls  or  the  imaginations  of  men,  could  overturn  Ben- 
ham's  argument  with  a  dramatic  gesture,  an  emotional 
phrase.  Why  was  it  that  Benham,  possessing  both  the 
character  of  the  patriot  and  the  graces  of  the  orator, 
should  fall  short  in  the  one  indefinable  attribute  which 
makes  a  man  the  natural  leader  of  men? 

"People  admire  him,  but  they  won't  follow  him/' 
Stephen  thought  in  perplexity.  "Vetch  has  something 
that  Benham  lacks;  and  it  is  this  something  that  makes 
people  believe  in  him  in  spite  of  themselves." 

This  idea  was  in  his  mind  when  he  met  Benham  one 
day  on  the  steps  of  his  club,  and  stopped  to  congratulate 
him  on  the  great  speech  he  had  made  the  evening  before. 

"By  Jove,  it  makes  me  want  to  throw  my  hat  into  the 
ring!"  he  exclaimed,  half  in  jest,  half  in  earnest. 

"I  wish  you  would,"  replied  the  other  gravely.  "We 
need  young  men.  It  is  youth  that  turns  the  world." 

Never,   Stephen    thought,    had    Benham ,  appeared 


THE  FEAR  OF  LIFE  249 

more  impressive,  more  perfectly  finished  and  turned 
out;  never  had  he  appeared  so  near  to  his  tailor  and 
so  far  from  his  audience.  He  was  a  handsome  man 
in  his  rather  colourless  fashion,  a  man  who  would  look 
any  part  with  distinction  from  policeman  to  Presi 
dent.  His  sleek  iron-gray  hair  had  as  usual  the  rich 
sheen  of  velvet;  his  thin,  sharp  profile  was  like  the  face 
on  a  Roman  coin.  A  man  of  power,  of  intellect,  of 
character;  and  yet  a  man  who  had  missed,  in  some 
inexplicable  way,  greatness,  achievement.  On  the 
whole  Stephen  was  glad  that  Corinna  had  announced 
her  engagement.  She  and  Benham  seemed  so  perfectly 
suited  to  each  other — and,  of  course,  there  was  nothing 
in  that  old  story  about  Alice  Rokeby.  A  friendship, 
nothing  more !  Only  the  other  day  Benham  had  spoken 
casually  of  his  "friendship"  for  Mrs.  Rokeby;  he 
always  called  her  "Mrs.  Rokeby";  and  Stephen  had 
accepted  the  phrase  as  a  satisfactory  explanation  of  their 
past  association. 

"I'd  like  to  go  into  some  public  work,"  said  the  young 
man.  "To  tell  the  truth  I  can't  settle  down." 

"I  know,"  Benham  responded  sympathetically.  "I 
went  through  it  all  myself;  but  there  is  nothing  like 
throwing  oneself  into  some  outside  work.  I  wish  you 
would  come  into  this  fight.  If  we  can  avert  this  strike 
it  will  be  worth  any  sacrifice." 

That  Benham  was  making  tremendous  personal 
sacrifices,  Stephen  knew,  and  the  young  man's  voice 
was  tinged  with  emotion  as  he  answered,  "I'm  afraid 
I'm  not  much  of  a  speaker." 

"Oh,  you  would  be,  if  you  would  only  let  yourself  go." 
There  it  was  again!  Even  Benham  recognized  his 
weakness;  even  Benham  knew  that  he  was  afraid  of  life.  t 


250  ONE  MAN  IN  HIS  TIME 

"Besides  we  need  men  of  every  type,"  Benham 
was  saying  smoothly.  "We  need  especially  good 
organizers.  The  fight  won't  be  over  to-morrow. 
Even  if  we  win  this  time,  we  must  organize  against 
Vetch  and  defeat  him  once  and  for  all  in  the  next 
elections." 

"Then  you  think  he  is  really  as  dangerous  as  the 
papers  are  trying  to  make  him  appear?" 

"I  think,"  Benham  replied  shortly,  "that  he  is  in  it 
for  what  he  can  get  out  of  it." 

"Well,  call  on  me  when  I  can  help  you,"  said  Stephen, 
as  they  parted;  and  a  minute  later  when  he  reached  the 
pavement,  he  found  occasion  to  repeat  his  impulsive 
offer  to  Judge  Horatio  Lancaster  Page. 

"I've  promised  Benham  that  I'll  do  all  I  can  to 
help  him  defeat  Vetch." 

"You're  right,"  returned  the  Judge,  with  his  smile 
of  discerning  irony.  "I  suppose  we're  obliged  to  fight 
him." 

"If  we  don't  what  will  happen?" 

"That's  what  I'd  like  to  see,  my  boy.  I'd  give  ten 
years  full  measure  and  running  over  to  see  exactly  what 
would  happen." 

"Benham  is  afraid  his  crowd  may  send  him  to  the 
Senate." 

"Perhaps,  but  there  is  always  a  chance  of  their  send 
ing  him  to  Jericho  instead." 

Stephen  nodded.  "Yes,  there's  trouble  already,  I 
believe,  over  this  strike." 

The  Judge  laughed  with  a  note  of  cynical  humour. 
"I  can  understand  why  he  should  feel  that  the  chief 
obstacle  to  loving  humanity  is  human  nature." 

"He's  dead  right,  too.     It  is  so  easy  to  be  a  philoso- 


THE  FEAR  OF  LIFE  251 

pher — or  a  philanthropist — in  a  desert.  I've  felt  like 
that  ever  since  I  came  home." 

But  the  Judge  had  grown  serious,  and  there  was  no 
merriment  in  his  voice  when  he  answered:  "I  may 
be  wrong,  of  course,  and,  thank  God,  my  mind  hasn't 
yet  got  too  stiff  with  age  to  change;  but  I've  a  reluc 
tant  belief  deep  down  in  me  that  this  fellow  Vetch  has 
got  hold  of  something  that  is  going  to  count.  I  don't 
pretend  to  know  what  it  is;  an  idea,  a  feeling,  merely 
an  undeveloped  instinct  for  truth,  or  expediency,  if 
you  like  it  better.  Of  course  it  is  all  crude  and  raw. 
It  needs  cultivation  and  direction;  but  it's  there — the 
vital  principle,  even  if  we  don't  recognize  it  when 
we  see  it.  All  the  same,"  he  concluded  in  a  lighter 
tone,  "I'm  glad  you  are  going  into  the  fight.  We  can't 
hurt  a  principle  by  fighting  it,  you  know." 

Then  he  passed  on  his  way;  and  the  transient  en 
thusiasm  which  had  illuminated  Stephen's  mind  drifted 
away  like  clouds  of  blown  smoke.  How  could  he 
fight  with  any  heart  when  there  seemed  to  him  nothing 
on  either  side  that  was  worth  fighting  for — nothing  ex 
cept  the  unselfish  patriotism  of  John  Benham?  He 
remembered  the  fervour,  the  exaltation  with  which  he 
had  gone  to  France  that  first  year  of  the  war.  The 
belief  in  a  righteous  cause  which  would  bring  peace  on 
earth  and  good  will  toward  men;  the  belief  in  a  human 
fellowship  which  would  grow  out  of  sacrifice;  the  belief 
in  a  fairer  social  order  which  would  flower  from  the  blood 
stained  memories  of  the  battlefields, — what  was  there 
left  of  these  romantic  illusions  to-day?  Was  it  true,  as 
Vetch  had  once  said,  that  organized  killing,  even  in  a 
just  cause,  must  bring  its  spiritual  punishment?  Could 
the  lust  of  blood  be  changed  by  a  document  into  the 


ONE  MAN  IN  HIS  TIME 

love  of  one's  brother?  "I  gave  my  youth  in  that  war," 
he  thought,  "and  I  won  from  it — what?  Disillusion 
ment."  With  the  reflection  he  felt  again  the  exhaustion 
of  the  nerves,  the  infirmity  of  purpose  against  which 
he  had  struggled  ever  since  his  return.  "If  there  were 
only  something  worth  fighting  for,  worth  believing 
in!  If  I  could  only  believe  earnestly,  or  desire  pas 
sionately — anything ! " 

Just  as  Corinna  had  longed  for  perfection,  for  some 
thing  to  worship,  he  found  himself  longing  now  for  a 
cause,  for  any  cause,  even  a  lost  one,  to  which  he 
could  give  himself.  He  wanted  facts,  deeds,  certain 
ties.  He  was  suffocated  by  shams  and  insincerities — 
and  phrases. 

Then  suddenly,  this  was  one  of  the  symptoms  of 
his  nervous  malady,  the  reaction  swept  over  him  in 
a  wave  of  energy  which  receded  almost  immediately. 
If  he  could  only  find  deliverance  from  himself  and  his 
own  subjective  processes!  If  he  could  only  be  borne 
away  by  the  passion  he  felt  and  yet  could  not  feel 
completely!  He  wanted  Patty,  he  knew,  but  did  he 
want  her  enough  to  justify  the  effort  that  he  must 
make  to  win  her?  Would  she  be  worth  to  him  the  break 
with  his  mother,  with  his  traditions,  with  his  in 
herited  ideals?  He  saw  her  small,  slight  figure  in  the 
dappled  sunlight  under  the  budding  trees.  He  saw  her 
vivid  flower-like  face,  her  romantic  eyes,  and  the  arch 
and  charming  smile  with  which  she  watched  his  ap 
proach.  Yes,  he  wanted  her,  he  wanted  her,  and 
she  was  the  only  thing  on  God's  earth,  he  told  himself 
rhetorically,  that  he  did  want  with  the  whole  of  his 
nature! 

Quickening  his  steps,  he  turned  in  the  direction  of  the 


THE  FEAR  OF  LIFE  253 

Capitol  Square,  which  stretched,  like  the  painted  cur 
tain  of  a  theatre,  across  the  end  of  the  street.  A 
singular  intuition,  a  presentiment,  had  come  to  him 
that  if  he  could  sustain  this  impulse,  this  tide  of  energy 
until  he  saw  Patty,  he  should  be  cured — he  should 
find  freedom  of  spirit.  Only  through  love,  he  had 
discovered,  could  there  be  resurrection  from  this  spirit 
ual  death  of  the  last  two  or  three  years.  Only  through 
some  tremendous  rush  of  desire  could  he  overcome  the 
partial  paralysis  of  his  will.  His  instinct,  he  knew,  was 
right,  but  would  his  resolution  last  until  he  had  found 
Patty? 

It  was  early  afternoon,  and  the  faintly  tinted  shad 
ows,  as  smooth  as  silk,  were  falling  straight  across 
the  bright  green  grass  on  the  hillside.  The  Square 
was  almost  deserted  at  this  hour,  except  for  the  old 
men  on  the  benches  and  the  squirrels  that  were  prepar 
ing  to  return  to  their  nests  in  the  trees.  The  breath 
of  spring  was  over  all,  roving,  fragrant,  provocative. 

He  shrank  from  going  straight  to  the  house;  but  Patty 
was  not  in  the  walks,  and  he  realized  that  if  he  found 
her  at  all  it  would  be  within  doors.  Perhaps  it  was 
better  so.  After  all,  he  must  become  accustomed  to  the 
mansion  and  all  that  it  contained,  including  Gideon 
Vetch,  if  he  really  loved  Patty !  And  did  he  really  love 
her?  Oh,  was  it  all  to  begin  over  again  after  the 
days  and  nights  when  he  had  threshed  it  out  alone  in 
desperation  of  mind?  Had  he  lost  not  only  all  that 
was  vital,  but  all  that  was  stable,  that  was  positive  and 
affirmative  in  his  life? 

He  stood  for  a  moment  with  his  eyes  on  the  fresh 
young  leaves  which  stirred  softly.  Then,  as  if  hope 
and  courage  had  passed  into  him  with  the  air  of  spring, 


254  ONE  MAN  IN  HIS  TIME 

he  turned  away  and  walked  rapidly  to  the  gate  of  the 
Governor's  house.  His  hand  was  on  the  iron  fence, 
and  he  was  about  to  enter  the  yard,  when  the  door 
opened  and  Patty  came  out  on  the  porch  with  Julius 
Gershom.  Stepping  quickly  back  under  the  trees, 
Stephen  watched  the  girl  descend  the  steps,  pass  the 
fountain,  and  go  swiftly  out  of  the  gate  into  the  broad 
drive  of  the  Square.  She  was  talking  eagerly  to  her 
companion ;  and,  though  she  had  told  him  that  she  dis 
liked  the  man,  she  was  smiling  up  at  him  while  she 
talked.  Her  face  was  like  a  pink  flower  under  the  dark 
brim  of  her  sailor  hat,  and  in  her  eyes,  beneath  the  in 
quiring  eyebrows,  there  was  the  expression  of  charming 
archness  that  he  had  imagined  so  vividly.  If  she  saw  him, 
she  made  no  sign;  and  for  a  moment  after  she  had  gone 
by,  he  stood  vaguely  wondering  if  she  had  seen  him 
and  if  she  had  chosen  this  way  to  punish  him  for  his 
neglect  of  the  past  two  or  three  weeks?  But  even 
then,  accepting  that  charitable  interpretation,  what 
explained  the  objectionable  presence  of  Gershom? 
Was  there  anything  that  could  explain  or  excuse  the 
presence  of  Gershom? 

The  fire  in  his  heart  died  down  to  cinders,  while 
the  light  faded  not  only  from  that  hidden  country  of 
the  endless  roads,  but  from  the  green  hill  and  the  blue 
sky  and  the  little  shining  leaves  of  the  branches 
overhead. 

In  the  distance,  he  could  see  the  two  figures  moving 
onward  toward  the  gate  of  the  Square;  and  beyond 
them  there  was  only  the  long  straight  street  filled  with 
gray  dust  and  the  empty  shadows  of  human  beings. 


CHAPTER    XVII 
MRS.  GREEN 

As  PATTY  went  by  so  quickly,  she  saw  Stephen 
without  appearing  to  glance  in  his  direction.  For  the 
last  few  weeks  a  flame  had  run  over  her  whenever  she 
remembered,  and  there  was  scarcely  a  moment  when 
it  was  out  of  her  mind,  that  she  had  shown  her  heart 
so  openly  and  that,  as  she  expressed  it  bitterly,  "he 
had  hidden  behind  his  mother."  "If  he  comes  back 
again,"  she  told  herself  recklessly,  and  she  felt  scorched 
when  she  thought  that  he  might  never  come  back, 
"I'll  let  him  see  that  I  can  trifle  as  well  as,  or  better, 
than  he  can.  I'll  let  him  see  that  two  can  play  at  that 
kind  of  game."  A  hundred  times  Corinna's  warning 
returned  to  her.  The  words,  which  had  made  so  slight 
an  impression  when  she  heard  them,  were  burned  now 
into  her  memory.  Oh,  Mrs.  Page  had  known  all  along 
what  it  meant!  She  had  understood  from  the  be 
ginning;  and  she  had  tried,  without  hurting  her,  to 
make  her  see  the  blind  folly  of  such  an  infatuation. 
As  she  thought  of  this  to-day,  Patty's  heart  ached  with 
injured  pride  and  resentment,  not  only  against  Stephen, 
but  against  the  unfairness  of  life.  Why  was  it  that  men 
and  circumstances  would  never  let  one  be  natural  and 
generous?  Was  there  a  conspiracy  of  events,  as  Mrs. 
Page  had  once  said,  to  prevent  the  finest  impulses 
from  coming  to  flower?  "I'd  have  done  anything 
on  earth  for  him,"  thought  the  girl  with  passion- 

255 


256  ONE  MAN  IN  HIS  TIME 

ate  indignation.  "I'd  have  made  any  sacrifice.  I 
could  have  been  anything  that  he  wanted."  And 
she  felt  bitterly  that  the  best  in  her  soul,  the  sacred 
places  of  her  life  had  been  invaded  and  destroyed. 
The  blighted  sensation  which  accompanies  the  recoil 
of  an  emotion  seemed  to  suspend  not  only  the  energy 
of  her  spirit,  but  the  very  breath  in  her  body.  A  change 
had  passed  over  her  heart  and  the  world  around  her 
and  the  persons  and  events  which  had  so  recently  com 
posed  her  universe.  She  felt  now  that  she  cared  for 
none  of  them,  that,  one  and  all,  they  had  ceased  to  in 
terest  her;  and  that  the  things  which  filled  their  lives 
were  all  vacant  and  meaningless  forms.  It  was  as  if 
the  vitality  of  existence  had  been  drained  away,  leaving 
an  empty  shell.  Nothing  was  real,  nothing  was  alive 
but  the  aching  core  of  her  own  wounded  heart. 

"I  don't  care.  I  won't  let  it  spoil  my  life,"  she  re 
solved  while  she  bit  back  a  sob.  "Whatever  happens, 
I  am  not  going  to  let  my  life  be  ruined."  She  had  re 
peated  this  so  often  that  it  had  begun  to  drone  in  her 
mind  like  a  line  out  of  a  hymn-book;  and  she  was  still 
repeating  it  when  she  swept  by  Stephen  without  so 
much  as  a  word  or  a  look.  A  dangerous  mood  was 
upon  her.  Nothing  mattered,  she  felt,  if  she  could  only 
prove  to  him  that  she  also  had  been  trifling;  that  his 
kiss  had  meant  as  little  to  her  as  to  him ;  that  from  the 
beginning  to  the  end  she  had  been  as  indifferent  as  he 
was. 

Her  step  quickened  into  a  run ;  and  Gershom,  striding, 
in  order  to  keep  up  with  her,  looked  at  her  with  the 
jovial  laugh  that  she  hated.  "You're  in  a  powerful 
hurry  to-day,  ain't  you?"  he  remarked. 

"I'm  always  in  a  hurry.     You  have  to  hurry  to  get 


MRS.  GREEN  257 

anything  out  of  life."  As  she  glanced  up  into  his  ad 
miring  eyes,  she  found  herself  wondering  what  Stephen 
had  thought  while  he  watched  her?  She  wished  that 
it  had  been  anybody  but  Gershom.  He  seemed  an 
unworthy  instrument  of  revenge,  though,  she  reflected, 
with  a  touch  of  her  father's  sagacity,  one  couldn't  al 
ways  choose  the  tools  one  would  like  best.  Most  peo 
ple  would  admit  that  he  was  good-looking  in  a  common 
way,  she  supposed ;  and  it  was  only  of  late  that  she  had 
realized  how  essentially  vulgar  he  was. 

"I'm  sorry  you  haven't  time  to  listen,"  he  said. 
"I  have  news  for  you."  Then,  as  she  fell  into  a  slower 
step,  he  added,  with  an  abrupt  change  to  a  slightly 
hectoring  tone:  "We  passed  that  young  Culpeper 
just  now.  Did  you  see  him?" 

She  shook  her  head  disdainfully.  "I  wasn't  looking 
at  him." 

"He  may  have  been  on  his  way  to  the  mansion." 
There  was  a  taunting  note  in  his  voice,  as  if  he  were 
trying  deliberately  to  work  her  into  a  temper. 

"It  doesn't  matter."  She  spoke  flippantly.  "I 
don't  care  whether  he  was  or  not." 

Gershom  laughed.  "That  sounds  good  to  me  even 
if  I  take  it  with  a  grain  of  salt.  I  was  beginning  to  be 
afraid  that  you  liked  him." 

She  turned  on  him  angrily.  "What  business  is 
that  of  yours?" 

His  amiability,  as  soon  as  he  had  struck  fire,  became 
imperturbable.  "Well,  I've  known  you  a  long  time, 
Patty,  and  I  take  an  interest  in  you,  you  see.  Now, 
I  don't  fancy  this  young  Culpeper.  He  is  a  conceited 
sort  of  ass  like  his  father  before  him,  the  sort  that 
thinks  all  clover  is  his  fodder." 


258  ONE  MAN  IN  HIS  TIME 

Though  Gershom  would  have  scorned  philosophy  had 
he  ever  heard  of  it,  he  was  well  grounded  in  that  practi 
cal  knowledge  of  human  perversity  from  which  all 
philosophers  and  most  philosophic  systems  have  sprung. 
Had  his  next  words  been  barbed  with  steel  they  could 
not  have  pierced  Patty's  girlish  pride  more  sharply. 
"I  reckon  he  imagines  all  he's  got  to  do  is  to  look  sweet 
at  a  girl,  and  she'll  fall  at  his  feet." 

Patty's  eyes  flashed  with  anger.  "He  is  not  unusual 
in  that,  is  he?"  she  asked  mockingly. 

"Well,  you  can't  accuse  me  of  that,  Patty,"  said 
Gershom,  with  a  sincerity  which  made  him  appear  less 
offensively  oily.  "I  never  looked  long  at  but  one  girl 
in  my  life,  not  since  I  first  saw  you,  anyway — and  I 
don't  seem  ever  to  have  had  an  idea  that  she  would 
fall  at  my  feet.  But  I  didn't  bring  you  out  here  to 
begin  kidding.  I  want  to  talk  to  you  about  the  Gover 
nor,  and  I  was  afraid  he  would  catch  on  to  something 
if  we  stayed  indoors." 

"About  Father?"  She  looked  at  him  in  alarm. 
"Is  there  anything  the  matter  with  Father?" 

Without  turning  his  head,  he  glanced  at  her  keenly 
out  of  the  corner  of  his  eye.  It  was  a  trick  of  his 
which  always  irritated  her  because  it  reminded  her  of 
the  sly  and  furtive  side  of  his  character. 

"You've  a  pretty  good  opinion  of  the  old  man,  haven't 
you,  Patty?" 

"I  think  he  is  the  greatest  man  in  the  world." 

"And  you  wouldn't  like  him  to  run  against  a  snag, 
would  you?" 

"What  do  you  mean?  Has  anything  happened  to 
worry  him?" 

He  had  stopped  just  beyond  the  nearest  side  entrance 


MRS.  GREEN  259 

to  the  Square,  and  he  stood  now,  with  his  eyes  on  the 
automobiles  before  the  City  Hall,  while  he  fingered 
thoughtfully  the  ornamental  scarf-pin  in  his  green  and 
purple  tie.  "There's  always  more  or  less  to  worry 
him,  ain't  there?" 

She  frowned  impatiently.  "Not  Father.  He  is 
hardly  ever  anything  but  cheerful.  Please  tell  me 
what  you  are  hinting." 

"I  wasn't  hinting.  But,  if  you  don't  mind  talking 
to  me  a  minute,  suppose  we  get  away  from  these  con 
founded  cars." 

He  turned  east,  following  the  iron  fence  of  the  Square 
until  they  reached  the  high  grass  bank  and  the  old  box 
hedge  which  surrounded  the  garden  at  the  back  of  the 
Governor's  house.  At  the  corner  of  the  street,  which 
sank  far  below  the  garden  terrace,  he  stopped  again 
and  laid  a  restraining  hand  on  her  arm. 

"He  thinks  a  great  deal  of  you  too." 

She  shook  his  hand  from  her  sleeve.  "Why  shouldn't 
he?  I  am  his  only  child."  Then  her  voice  hardened, 
and  she  glanced  at  him  suspiciously.  "I  wish  for  once 
you  would  try  to  be  honest." 

"Honest?"  His  amusement  was  perfectly  sincere. 
"I  am  as  honest  as  the  day,  and  I've  always  been. 
That's  why  I'm  in  politics." 

"Then  tell  me  what  you  are  trying  to  say  about 
Father.  If  there's  anything  wrong,  I'd  rather  be  told 
at  once." 

They  were  still  standing  on  the  deserted  corner  be 
low  the  garden,  and  while  she  waited  for  his  answer, 
she  glanced  away  from  him  up  the  side  street,  which 
rose  in  a  steep  ascent  from  the  business  quarter  of  the 
town.  The  sun  was  still  high  over  the  distant  house- 


260  ONE  MAN  IN  HIS  TIME 

tops  and  the  light  turned  the  brick  pavement  to 
a  rich  red  and  shot  the  clouds  of  gray  dust  with 
silver.  The  neighbourhood  was  one  which  had  seen 
better  days,  and  some  well-built  old  houses,  with  red 
walls  and  white  porches,  lent  an  air  of  hospitality  and 
comfortable  living  to  the  numerous  cheap  boarding 
places  that  filled  the  street.  Crowds  of  children  were 
playing  games  or  skating  on  roller  skates  over  the  side 
walk;  and  on  the  porches  a  few  listless  women  gossiped 
idly;  or  gazed  out  over  newspapers  which  they  did  not 
read. 

"Well,  there  ain't  anything  wrong  exactly — yet," 
replied  Gershom. 

"But  there  may  be,  you  think?" 

"That  depends  upon  him.  If  he  keeps  headed  the 
way  he's  going,  and  he's  as  stubborn  as  a  mule, 
there'll  be  trouble  as  sure  as  my  name  is  Julius." 

"Is  that  what  you've  quarrelled  about  of  late — the 
way  he's  going?" 

"Bless  your  heart,  honey,  we  ain't  quarrelled!  Has 
it  sounded  like  that  to  you?  I've  just  been  trying  to 
make  him  see  reason,  that's  all.  He  ain't  got  a  right, 
you  know,  to  turn  against  his  best  friends  the  way  he's 
doing.  Friends  are  friends  whether  you  are  in  office 
or  out,  and  there's  a  lot  that  a  man  owes  to  the  folks 
that  have  stood  by  him.  I  tell  you  I  know  politics 
from  the  bottom  up,  and  there  ain't  no  room  in  'em 
for  the  man — I  don't  give  a  darn  who  he  is — that  don't 
stand  by  his  friends.  If  he's  the  President  of  the 
United  States,  he'll  find  that  he  can't  afford  not  to 
stand  by  the  people  who  put  him  there!" 

So  this  was  the  trouble !  He  had  let  out  his  grievance 
at  last,  and  from  the  smouldering  resentment  in  his 


MRS.  GREEN  261 

eyes,  she  understood  that  some  real  or  imaginary  in 
justice  had  put  him,  for  the  moment  at  least,  in  an  ugly 
temper.  If  he  had  not  met  her  when  he  left  the  house, 
if  he  had  waited  to  grow  cool,  to  reflect,  he  would 
probably  never  have  taken  her  into  his  confidence. 
Chance  again,  she  thought,  not  without  bitterness. 
How  much  of  the  happiness  or  unhappiness  of  life 
depended  upon  chance! 

"I  don't  believe  it,"  she  returned  emphatically. 
"He  always  stands  by  people." 

"He  used  to,"  he  replied  sullenly,  "but  that  was  in 
the  old  days  when  he  needed  'em.  The  truth  is  he's 
got  his  head  turned  by  his  election.  He  thinks  he's 
so  strong  that  he  can  go  on  alone  and  keep  the  crowd 
at  his  back;  but  he'll  find  he's  mistaken,  and  that  the 
crowd,  when  it  ain't  worked  right  from  the  inside,  is  a 
poor  thing  to  depend  on.  The  crowd  does  the  shout 
ing,  but  it's  a  man's  friends  that  start  the  tune." 

"Are  you  talking  about  the  strike?"  she  asked. 
"I  thought  he  was  in  sympathy  with  the  strikers." 

"Oh,  he  says  he  is,  but  he  won't  prove  it." 

She  faced  him  squarely,  with  her  head  held  high  and 
her  eyes  cold  and  determined.  "What  do  you  want 
me  to  do?  Please  don't  beat  about  the  bush  any 
longer." 

He  hesitated  a  moment,  and  she  inferred  that  he  was 
trying  to  decide  how  far  he  might  venture  with  safety. 
"Well,  I  thought  you  might  speak  a  word  to  him," 
he  said.  "He  sets  such  store  by  what  you  would  like. 
I  thought  you  might  drop  a  hint  that  he  ought  to  stand 
by  his  friends." 

"To  stand  by  his  friends — that  means  you,"  she 
rejoined. 


ONE  MAN  IN  HIS  TIME 

"Oh,  he'll  know  quick  enough  what  it  means!  You 
must  be  smart  about  it,  of  course,  but  I  don't  mind  his 
knowing  that  I've  been  speaking  to  you.  It's  for  his 
own  good  that  I'm  talking — for  the  very  minute  that 
the  fellows  find  out  he  ain't  been  on  the  square  with 
'em,  it  will  be  'nothing  doing'  for  the  Governor." 

"It  is  a  threat,  then?"  she  asked  sharply. 

"  I'd  call  it  something  else  if  I  were  you.  Look  here," 
he  continued  briskly.  "You'd  like  to  see  the  old  man 
go  to  the  Senate,  and  maybe  higher  up,  wouldn't  you?  " 

"Oh,  of  course.     What  has  that  to  do  with  it?" 

He  winked  and  laughed  knowingly.  "Well,  you 
just  take  my  advice  and  drop  a  hint  to  him  about  this 
business.  Then,  perhaps,  you'll  see." 

"If  he  doesn't  take  the  hint,  what  will  you  do?" 

"Ask  me  that  in  the  sweet  bye  and  bye,  honey!" 
His  tone  had  become  offensively  familiar.  "It's  for 
his  good,  you  know.  If  it's  the  last  word  I  ever  speak 
I'm  trying  to  save  him  from  the  biggest  snag  he  ever 
met  in  his  life." 

She  had  drawn  disdainfully  away  from  him;  but  at 
his  last  words  she  came  a  step  nearer.  "I'll  tell  him 
exactly  what  you  say,"  she  answered;  and  then  she 
asked  suddenly  in  a  firmer  tone:  "Have  you  heard 
anything  more  of  my  aunt?" 

He  looked  at  her  intently.  "Why,  yes.  You  hadn't 
mentioned  her  again,  so  I  thought  you'd  ceased  to  be 
interested.  Would  you  like  to  see  her?"  he  demanded 
abruptly  after  a  pause. 

"How  can  I?     I  don't  know  where  she  is." 

For  a  minute  or  two  before  replying  he  studied  her 
closely.  "I  wish  you  would  let  your  hair  grow  out, 
Patty,"  he  remarked  at  the  end  of  his  examination, 


MRS.  GREEN  263 

and  there  was  a  note  of  genuine  feeling  in  his  bantering. 
"I  remember  how  pretty  you  used  to  look  as  a  little 
girl,  with  your  hair  flying  behind  you  like  the  mane  of 
a  pony." 

"Let  my  hair  alone.  Do  you  know  where  my  aunt 
is?" 

He  appeared  to  yield  reluctantly  to  her  insistence. 
"If  you're  so  bent  on  knowing — and,  mind  you,  I  tell 
you  only  because  you  make  me — she  ain't  so  very  far 
from  where  we  are  standing.  I  could  take  you  to  her 
in  ten  minutes." 

She  looked  at  him  as  if  she  scarcely  believed  his  words. 
"You  mean  that  she  is  in  town?" 

"Haven't  you  known  me  long  enough  to  find  out 
that  I  always  mean  what  I  say?" 

"Then  you  can  take  me  to  her  now?" 

He  laughed  shortly,  and  dug  the  end  of  his  walking 
stick  between  the  pavement  and  the  edge  of  the  curb 
stone.  "What  do  you  reckon  the  Governor  would 
say  to  it?" 

"I  needn't  tell  him — not  just  yet,  anyhow.  But  are 
you  really  and  truly  sure  that  she  is  my  mother's 
sister?" 

"Well,  they  had  the  same  parents,  and  I  reckon  that 
makes  'em  sisters  if  anything  does.  I  knew  'em  both 
out  yonder  in  California,  and  I  never  heard  anybody 
suggest  they  weren't  related." 

"Why  did  she  come  here?     Was  it  to  see  me?" 

"Partly  that,  and  partly — well,  she's  been  pretty 
sick.  I  reckon  she's  likely  to  go  off  at  any  time,  and 
she  wanted  to  be  back  where  she  was  born.  She  had 
pneumonia  two  years  ago,  and  then  again  last  winter. 
Her  lungs  are  about  used  up." 


264  ONE  MAN  IN  HIS  TIME 

"Then,  if  I  went  to  see  her,  I'd  better  go  now,  hadn't 
I?" 

"It  would  be  surer.  Something  may  happen  almost 
any  day.  That's  why  I  spoke  to  you." 

"I  am  glad  you  did.  If  it  isn't  far,  will  you  take  me 
now?" 

But  instead  of  walking  on  with  her,  he  dug  the  end  of 
his  stick  more  firmly  between  the  pavement  and  the 
curbstone.  "I  don't  want  to  do  you  any  harm, 
Patty,"  he  said  gently  at  last.  "It  may  give  you  a 
shock  to  see  her,  you  know.  She's  been  through  some 
hard  times,  and  she's  about  come  to  the  end  of 
her  rope.  Good  Lord,  the  way  life  is !  When  I  first 
saw  her  out  in  California  she  was  one  of  the  prettiest 
pieces  of  flesh  I  ever  laid  eyes  on.  She  had  some 
thing  of  your  look,  too,  though  you  wouldn't  believe  it 
now." 

But  the  girl  had  already  started  to]  cross  the  street. 
"Don't  let's  waste  any  time  talking.  Which  way  do 
we  go?" 

At  her  decision  his  hesitation  vanished,  and  he 
joined  her  with  a  laugh  and  a -flourish  of  the  diamond 
ring  on  the  little  finger  of  his  left  hand.  "Well,  you 
are  a  sport,  Patty!  You  always  were,  even  when  you 
weren't  much  more  than  knee  high  to  a  duck.  If 
you've  made  up  your  mind  to  go,  you  won't  be  blam 
ing  me  afterward?" 

"Oh,  I  sha'n't  blame  you,  of  course.  Do  we  turn  up 
this  street?" 

"Yes,  go  ahead.  It  ain't  far — just  a  little  way  up 
Leigh  Street." 

They  walked  on  rapidly,  and  presently,  so  swift 
and  determined  was  Patty's  step,  Gershom  ceased  to 


MRS.  GREEN  265 

speak,  and  only  glanced  at  her  now  and  then  in  a 
furtive  and  anxious  way.  There  was  a  look  of  tragic 
resolution  on  her  small  face — oh,  she  was  meeting 
life  in  earnest,  she  reflected — and  even  to  the  coarse 
mind  and  the  dull  imagination  of  the  man  beside  her, 
she  assumed  gradually  the  appearance  of  some  ethereal 
messenger.  At  the  moment  she  was  thinking  of 
Stephen,  but  this  he  did  not  suspect.  He  saw  only 
that  there  was  something  almost  unearthly  in  her 
expression;  and  he  felt  the  kind  of  awe  that  came  over 
him  on  Sunday  when  he  entered  a  church.  He  wouldn't 
hurt  the  girl,  he  told  himself,  with  a  twinge,  for  a 
pocketful  of  money. 

They  had  turned  into  Leigh  Street,  and  had  walked 
some  distance  in  silence,  when  Patty  asked  suddenly 
without  looking  round,  "Then  she  doesn't  know  I 
am  coming?" 

"I  told  her  I'd  bring  you  whenever  I  could;  but  she 
ain't  looking  for  you  this  evening.  There,  that's  the 
house — the  one  in  the  middle,  with  that  wooden  swing 
and  all  those  kids  in  the  yard." 

He  pointed  to  what  had  once  been  a  fine  old  house  of 
stuccoed  brick,  with  a  square  front  porch  and  green 
shutters  which  were  sagging  on  loosened  hinges.  On 
the  walls  where  the  stucco  had  peeled  away,  the  red 
brick  showed  in  splotches,  and  the  pillars  of  the  porch, 
which  had  been  white,  were  now  speckled  with  yellow 
stains.  Over  the  whole  place,  with  its  air  of  fallen 
respectability,  there  hung  the  depressing  smell  of 
mingled  dust,  stale  cooking,  and  bad  tobacco.  A 
number  of  imposing  and  well-preserved  houses  stood 
on  the  block,  for  of  the  whole  neighbourhood,  it 
appeared  to  the  girl,  they  had  chosen  the  most  dilapi- 


266  ONE  MAN  IN  HIS  TIME 

dated  dwelling  and  the  one  which  was  most  crowded 
with  children. 

"We're  here  all  right.  Don't  go  so  fast,"  re 
marked  Gershom,  as  they  ascended  the  steps.  "It 
ain't  going  to  run  away  from  you."  Bending  down 
he  picked  up  a  crying  urchin  from  the  steps.  "Lost 
your  ball,  have  you?  Well,  I  expect  if  you  dig  deep 
enough  in  my  pocket,  you  can  find  it  again.  Hello! 
You've  got  a  punch,  ain't  you,  sonny?  A  regular 
John  L.,  I  reckon."  Putting  the  child  down,  he  con 
tinued  sheepishly  to  Patty:  "I  always  had  a  soft  spot 
for  the  kids.  Never  could  pass  one  in  the  street  with 
out  stopping." 

On  the  porch,  beside  a  broken  perambulator,  which 
contained  a  black-eyed  baby  with  a  bottle  of  milk, 
a  stout  man  sat  reading  the  afternoon  paper,  while  with 
one  hand  he  patiently  pushed  the  rickety  carriage  back 
and  forth.  As  they  reached  the  porch,  he  laid  aside 
his  paper,  and  rose  with  his  hand  still  on  the  per 
ambulator. 

"Oh,  it's  you,"  he  said,  "Mr.  Gershom." 

"I've  brought  this  lady  to  see  Mrs.  Green,"  returned 
Gershom.  "How  is  she?" 

The  stout  man  shook  his  head  and  surveyed  Patty 
curiously  but  not  discourteously.  He  had  a  kindly, 
humorous  look,  and  she  felt  at  once  that  she  preferred 
his  blunt  frankness  to  Gershom's  facetious  insin 
cerity.  There  was  something  in  his  face  that  suggested 
the  black-eyed  baby  sucking  placidly  at  the  rubber  nip 
ple  on  the  bottle  of  milk. 

"She's  worse  if  anything.  The  doctor  came  this 
morning."  The  baby,  having  dropped  the  bottle, 
lifted  a  despairing  wail,  and  the  father  bent  over  and 


MRS.  GREEN  267 

replaced  the  nipple  gently  between  the  quivering  lips. 
"The  rent  was  due  yesterday,"  he  added,  "I  under 
stood  that  there  was  to  be  no  trouble  about  it." 

"Oh,  there's  no  trouble  about  that.  I'm  responsi 
ble,"  replied  Ger shorn  quickly.  He  was  about  to  pass 
on;  but  changing  his  mind,  he  stopped  and  drew  out  his 
pocket  book.  "I'll  settle  it  now.  Are  there  any 
extras?" 

"Yes,  she's  had  to  have  eggs  and  milk,  and  there 
have  been  medicines.  It  comes  to  twelve  dollars  in 
all.  I'll  show  you  the  account." 

"Very  well.  Get  anything  that  she  needs."  Then, 
as  Gershom  followed  Patty  into  the  hall,  he  pointed 
to  the  fine  old  staircase.  "It's  the  back  room.  Go 
straight  up.  You  ain't  timid,  are  you?" 

"Timid?  Oh,  no."  Running  lightly  up  the  stairs, 
the  girl  hesitated  a  moment  before  the  half -open  door  of 
the  room  at  the  back  of  the  house.  Then,  in  obe 
dience  to  a  gesture  from  Gershom  as  he  pushed  the  door 
wider,  she  crossed  the  threshold,  and  went  rapidly 
toward  a  couch  in  front  of  the  window.  As  she  went 
forward  there  floated  to  her  a  heavy,  sweetish  scent 
which  seemed  to  her  to  be  the  very  breath  of  despair. 
Her  first  thought  was  that  the  sun  had  gone  under  a 
cloud;  the  next  instant  she  perceived  that  the  window 
was  shaded  by  a  ragged  ailantus  tree  and  that  beyond 
the  tree  there  was  a  high  brick  wall  which  shut  out  the 
daylight.  Then  she  looked  at  the  woman  lying  under 
a  ragged  blanket  on  the  couch;  and  she  felt  vaguely 
that  the  haggard  features  framed  in  coarse  black  hair 
awakened  a  troubled  sense  of  familiarity  or  recog 
nition.  The  next  instant  there  returned  to  her  the 
memory  of  her  walk  in  the  Square  with  Corinna  a  few 


268  ONE  MAN  IN  HIS  TIME 

weeks  before,  and  of  the  strange  woman  who  had  looked 
at  them  so  curiously. 

"I  have  come  to  see  you,"  she  began  gently,  "Mr. 
Gershom  brought  me." 

Raising  her  head,  the  woman  stared  at  her  without 
replying.  Her  eyes  were  dull  and  heavy,  with  droop 
ing  lids  beneath  which  a  sombre  glow  flickered  and 
died  down.  There  was  a  wan  yellow  tinge  over  her 
face;  and  yet  now  that  the  approach  of  death  had 
refined  and  purified  her  features,  she  was  not  without 
a  gravity  of  expression  which  made  her  strangely  im 
pressive,  like  some  wax  mask  of  an  avenging  Fate. 
With  a  sensation  of  relief,  Patty's  eyes  wandered  from 
the  haggard  face  to  a  calla  lily  in  a  pot  on  the  window- 
sill,  and  she  noticed  that  it  bore  a  single  perfect 
blossom.  While  she  waited,  overcome  by  a  dumbness 
which  seemed  to  invade  her  from  head  to  foot,  her 
eyes  clung  to  that  calla  lily  as  if  it  were  her  one  con 
nection  with  reality.  All  the  rest,  the  close,  dingy 
room,  with  the  ailantus  tree  and  the  high  wall  beyond, 
the  sickening  sweetish  odour  with  which  she  was 
unfamiliar,  the  waxen  mask  and  the  blank,  drooping 
eyes  of  the  woman;  all  these  things  seemed  to  exist 
not  in  her  actual  surroundings,  but  in  some  hideous 
dream  from  which  she  was  struggling  to  awake.  Some 
where  long  ago,  in  a  dreadful  nightmare,  she  had 
smelled  that  cloying  scent  and  seen  those  half -shut 
eyes  looking  back  at  her.  Somewhere — and  yet  it 
was  impossible.  She  could  only  have  imagined  it  all. 

Suddenly  the  woman  spoke  in  a  thick  voice.  "You 
are  the  Governor's  daughter?  Gideon  Vetch's  daugh 
ter?" 

"Yes.     Mr.  Gershom  told  me  you  wanted  to  see  me." 


MRS.  GREEN  269 

"Mr.  Gershom?"  The  woman's  eyelids  flickered 
and  then  fell  heavily  over  her  expressionless  eyes. 
"Oh,  you  mean  Julius.  Yes,  I  told  him  I  wanted  to 
see  you."  A  quiver  of  animation  passed  like  a  spasm 
over  her  features,  and  she  inquired  eagerly,  "Where 
is  he?  Did  he  come?" 

"I'm  here  all  right,"  said  Gershom,  stepping  briskly 
into  the  range  of  her  vision. 

She  gazed  up  at  him  as  he  approached  her  with  the 
look  of  a  famished  animal,  a  look  so  little  human  and 
so  full  of  physical  hunger  that  Patty  turned  her  eyes 
again  to  the  calla  lily  on  the  window-sill,  and  then  to 
the  young  green  on  the  ailantus  tree  and  the  brick 
wall  beyond.  To  the  girl  it  seemed  that  minutes 
must  have  gone  by  before  the  next  words  came.  "You 
brought  the  medicine?" 

"Yes,  I  brought  it.  The  doctor  gave  it  to  me;  but 
it  is  hard  to  get,  and  he  said  you  were  to  have  it  only 
on  condition  that  you  do  everything  that  we  tell 

you." 

"Oh,  I  will,  I  will."  She  reached  out  her  hand 
eagerly  for  the  package  he  had  taken  from  his  coat 
pocket;  and  when  Patty  looked  at  her  again  a  curious 
change  had  passed  over  her  face,  revivifying  it  with 
the  colour  of  happiness.  "I  have  been  in  such  pain — 
such  pain,"  she  whispered.  "I  was  afraid  it  would 
come  back  before  you  came.  Oh,  I  was  so  afraid." 
Then  she  added  hurriedly:  "Is  that  all?  Did  you  bring 
nothing  else?" 

Though  a  look  of  embarrassment  crossed  his  face, 
he  carried  off  the  difficult  situation  with  his  charac 
teristic  assurance.  "The  doctor  sent  you  a  little 
stimulant.  Perhaps  I'd  better  give  you  a  dose  now. 


£70  ONE  MAN  IN  HIS  TIME 

It  might  pick  you  up."  Taking  a  bottle  from  his 
pocket,  he  poured  some  whiskey  into  a  glass  and  added 
a  little  water  from  a  pitcher  on  the  table.  "There, 
now,"  he  remarked,  with  genuine  sympathy  as  he  held 
the  glass  to  her  lips.  "You'll  begin  to  feel  better  in  a 
minute.  This  young  lady  can't  stay  but  a  little 
while,  s6  you'd  better  try  to  buck  up." 

"I'll  try,"  answered  the  woman  obediently.  "I'll 
try — but  it  isn't  easy  to  come  back  out  of  hell."  Lift 
ing  her  head  from  the  pillow,  as  if  it  were  a  dead  weight 
that  did  not  belong  to  her,  she  stared  at  Patty  while 
her  tormented  mind  made  an  effort  to  remember.  In 
a  minute  her  mouth  worked  pathetically,  and  she 
burst  into  tears.  "I  can't  come  back  now,  I  can't 
come  back  now,"  she  repeated  in  a  whimpering  tone. 
"But  I'll  be  better  before  long,  and  then  I  want  to  see 
you.  There  are  things  I  want  to  tell  you  when  I  get 
the  strength.  I  can't  think  of  them  now,  but  they 
are  things  about  Gideon  Vetch." 

"About  Father?"  asked  the  girl,  and  her  voice 
trembled. 

The  woman  stopped  crying,  and  looked  up  appeal- 
ingly,  while  she  wiped  her  eyes  on  the  ragged  edge  of 
the  blanket.  "Yes,  about  Gideon  Vetch.  That's  his 
name,  ain't  it?" 

"I  wouldn't  talk  any  more  now,  if  I  were  you,"  said 
Gershom,  putting  his  hand  gently  on  her  pillow. 
"We'll  come  again  when  you're  feeling  spryer." 

The  woman  nodded.  "Yes,  come  again.  Bring 
her  again." 

"I'll  come  whenever  you  send  for  me,"  said  Patty 
reassuringly;  but  instead  of  looking  at  the  woman,  she 
stooped  over  and  touched  the  calla  lily  with  her  lips, 


MRS.  GREEN  271 

as  if  it  were  human  and  could  respond  to  her.  "I 
want  you  to  tell  me  about  my  mother — everything. 
I  remember  her  just  once,  the  night  before  they  took 
her  to  the  asylum.  She  was  in  spangled  skirts  that 
stood  out  like  a  ballet  dancer's,  and  there  was  a  crown 
of  stars  on  her  hair  and  a  star  on  the  end  of  the  wand  she 
carried.  I  remember  it  all  just  as  plainly  as  if  it  were 
yesterday — though  they  tell  me  I  was  too  little " 

She  broke  off  because  the  woman  was  gazing  at  her 
so  strangely.  "You  were  too  little,"  she  cried,  and 
burst  into  hysterical  weeping.  "I  can't  stand  it," 
she  said  wildly.  "I  never  had  a  chance,  and  I  can't 
stand  it." 

"I  think  we'd  better  go,"  said  Gershom.  It  amazed 
Patty  to  find  how  gentle  he  could  be  when  his  sym 
pathy  was  touched.  "I  oughtn't  to  have  brought 
you  to-day."  Turning  away,  he  left  the  room  hurriedly, 
as  if  the  scene  were  too  much  for  him. 

At  this  the  woman  controlled  herself  wTith  a  con 
vulsive  effort.  "No,  I  wanted  to  see  you,"  she  said. 
"You  are  pretty,  but  you  aren't  prettier  than  your 
mother  was  at  your  age." 

For  a  moment  the  girl  looked  pityingly  down  on  her. 
"I  hope  you  will  soon  be  better,"  she  responded  in  a 
tone  which  she  tried  to  make  sympathetic  in  spite  of 
the  physical  shrinking  she  felt.  "Let  me  know  when 
you  wish  to  see  me,  and  I  will  come  back." 

The  woman  shivered.  "Do  you  mean  that?"  she 
asked.  "Will  you  come  when  I  send  for  you?  I 
want  to  see  you  again — once — before  I  die." 

"I  promise  you  that  I  will  come.  I'll  send  you  some 
thing,  too,  and  so  will  Father." 

"Gideon  Vetch,"  said  the  woman  very  slowly,  as 


ONE  MAN  IN  HIS  TIME 

if  she  were  trying  to  hold  the  name  in  her  consciousness 
before  it  slipped  away  from  her.  "Gideon  Vetch." 

As  the  girl  broke  away  and  ran  out  of  the  room  that 
expressionless  repetition  followed  her  into  the  hall  and 
down  the  staircase,  growing  fainter  and  fainter  like 
the  voice  of  one  who  is  falling  asleep:  "Gideon  Vetch. 
Gideon  Vetch." 

On  the  porch,  where  the  stout  man  had  returned  to 
his  newspaper,  Patty  found  Gershom  standing  beside 
the  perambulator,  with  the  black-eyed  baby  in  his  arms. 
He  was  gazing  gravely  over  the  round  bald  head,  and 
his  face  wore  a  funereal  expression  which  contrasted 
ludicrously  with  the  clucking  sounds  he  was  making 
to  the  attentive  and  interested  baby.  When  Patty 
joined  him  he  put  the  child  back  into  the  carriage, 
carefully  tucking  the  crocheted  robe  about  the  tiny 
shoulders.  "I  kind  of  thought  the  little  one  might 
like  a  chance  to  get  out  of  that  buggy,"  he  observed, 
while  he  straightened  himself  briskly,  and  adjusted  his 
tie. 

"She  must  be  very  ill,"  said  the  girl,  as  they  went  out 
of  the  gate  and  turned  down  the  street. 

"A  sure  thing,"  replied  Gershom  concisely.  Then 
he  whistled  sharply,  and  added,  "Rotten,  that's  what 
I  call  it." 

"She  said  she'd  never  had  a  chance,"  remarked 
Patty  thoughtfully,  "I  wonder  what  she  meant." 

The  funereal  expression  spread  like  a  pall  over  Ger- 
shom's  features,  but  his  intermittent  whistle  sounded 
as  sprightly  as  ever.  "Well,  how  many  folks  in  this 
world  have  ever  had  what  you  might  call  a  decent 
chance?"  he  asked. 

"  I  don't  know.     I  hadn't  thought."     The  girl  looked 


MRS.  GREEN  273 

depressed  and  puzzled.  "It's  a  dreadful  thing  to  think 
that  nobody  cares  when  you're  dying."  Then  her 
tone  grew  more  hopeful.  "Do  you  suppose  anybody 
thinks  that  Father  never  had  a  chance?"  she  asked. 

Gershom  broke  into  a  laugh.  "Well,  if  he  had  it, 
you  may  be  pretty  sure  that  he  made  it  himself,"  he 
retorted. 

"Then  I  wish  he  could  make  some  for  other  people." 

"He  says  he's  trying  to,  doesn't  he?  But  between 
us,  Patty,  my  child,  you  won't  forget  what  you  have 
to  say  to  the  old  man,  will  you?" 

"What  have  I  to  say?  Oh,  you  mean  about  stand 
ing  by  his  friends?" 

"That's  just  it.  You  tell  him  from  yours  truly  that 
the  best  thing  he  can  do  all  round  is  to  stick  fast  to 
his  friends." 

"And  that  means  the  strikers?" 

"It  means  what  I  tell  you." 

"Well,  I'll  repeat  exactly  what  you  say;  it  won't 
make  any  difference  if  his  mind  is  made  up." 

"Maybe  so.  Are  you  going  to  tell  him  where  you've 
been?" 

"I  don't  knowr.  I  hate  to  worry  him;  but  that  poor 
woman  must  need  help." 

"Oh,  she  needs  it.  We  all  need  it,"  remarked 
Gershom  flippantly.  Then,  as  they  reached  the  en 
trance  to  the  Square,  he  held  out  his  hand.  "Well, 
I'm  off  now,  and  I  hope  you  aren't  feeling  any  worse 
because  of  your  visit.  The  world  ain't  made  of  honey 
comb,  you  know,  and  there's  no  use  pretending  it  is. 
But  you're  a  darn  good  sport,  Patty.  You're  as  good 
a  sport  as  I  ever  struck  up  with  in  this  little  affair  of 
life." 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

MYSTIFICATION 

WALKING  slowly  home  across  the  Square,  Patty  told 
herself  that  the  future  had  been  taken  out  of  her  hands. 
She  seemed  to  have  been  moved  mentally,  if  not 
bodily,  into  another  world,  into  a  world  where  the 
sleepy  old  Square,  wrapped  in  a  soft  afternoon  haze, 
still  existed,  but  from  which  Stephen  Culpeper  had 
vanished  in  a  rosy  cloud.  She  did  not  know  why  she 
had  relinquished  the  thought  of  Stephen  since  her 
visit  to  the  house  in  East  Leigh  Street;  but  some  deep 
instinct  warned  her  that  she  had  widened  the  gulf  be 
tween  them  by  her  excursion  with  Gershom.  "I  can't 
help  it,"  she  thought  sensibly  enough.  "There  wasn't 
anything  in  it  before  that,  and  I  might  as  well  go 
ahead  and  stop  thinking  about  it."  Her  anger  at 
Stephen's  neglect  had  melted  into  a  vague  and  im 
personal  resentment,  a  resentment,  rather  for  the 
dying  woman  than  for  herself,  against  all  the  needless 
cruelties  of  life.  Even  Gershom,  even  the  unspeakable 
Gershom,  had  had  discernment  enough  to  see  that 
something  good  in  that  poor  woman  had  been  blighted 
and  crushed.  Was  it  true  that  no  one  was  ever  given 
the  chance  to  be  one's  best?  Was  this  true,  not  only  of 
that  dying  woman,  but  of  her  father  and  Stephen  and 
Corinna  and  herself  and  all  human  beings  everywhere? 

Lingering  a  moment  near  the  Washington  monu 
ment,  she  stood  watching  the  straggling  groups  that 

£74 


MYSTIFICATION  275 

were  crossing  the  Square.  Bit  by  bit,  snatches  of  con 
versation  drifted  into  her  mind  and  then  blew  out 
again,  leaving  scarcely  the  shadow  of  an  impression. 
"They  tell  me  it's  going  up.  I  don't  know,  but  I'll 
find  out  to-morrow."  "I  wouldn't  wear  one  of  those 

things  for  a  million  dollars,  and  he  says "  "Yes, 

I've  arranged  to  go  unless  the  strike  should  be  called 
next  week." 

The  strike?  Oh,  she  had  almost  forgotten  it!  She 
had  almost  forgotten  the  message  she  had  promised 
to  deliver  to  her  father.  With  a  gesture  that  appeared 
to  sweep  her  last  remaining  illusion  behind  her,  she 
started  resolutely  up  the  drive  to  the  house.  After 
all,  whatever  came,  she  would  not  let  them  think  that 
she  was  either  afraid  of  life  or  disappointed  in  love. 
She  would  not  mope,  and  she  would  not  show  the  white 
feather.  On  one  point  she  was  passionately  deter 
mined — no  man,  by  any  method  known  to  the  drama  of 
sex,  was  going  to  break  her  heart! 

She  had  quickened  her  steps  while  she  made  her 
resolve;  and,  a  minute  later,  she  broke  into  a  run  when 
she  saw  that  Corinna's  car  stood  at  the  door  and  that 
Corinna  waited  for  her  in  the  hall.  Had  the  girl  only 
realized  it,  Corinna's  heart  also  was  troubled;  and  the 
visit  was  one  result  of  the  discouraging  talk  she  had 
had  recently  with  Stephen. 

"I  had  to  go  down  town,  so  I  stopped  on  the  way 
back  to  speak  to  you."  Though  she  said  no  word  of 
her  anxiety,  Patty  could  hear  it  in  every  note  of  her 
expressive  voice  and  feel  it  in  the  protective  pressure 
of  her  arm.  "I  want  you  to  go  with  me  to  the  Harri 
sons'  dance  Wednesday  night,  and  I  want  you  to  look 
your  very  prettiest." 


276  ONE  MAN  IN  HIS  TIME 

"But  I'm  not  even  asked." 

"Oh,  you  are.  Mrs.  Harrison  has  just  told  me  she 
was  sending  your  invitation  with  a  number  that  had  not 
gone  out."  How  like  Corinna  it  was  to  put  it  that 
way!  "They  are  giving  it  for  that  English  girl  who  is 
staying  with  them.  She  is  pretty,  but  you  must  look 
ever  so  much  prettier.  I  want  you  to  wear  that  green 
and  silver  dress  that  makes  you  look  like  a  mermaid." 
The  kind  voice,  so  full  of  sympathy,  so  forgetful  of 
self,  flooded  Patty's  heart  like  sunshine  after  darkness. 

"I  will  go,  if  you  wish  me  to,"  she  answered,  raising 
Corinna's  hand  to  her  cheek.  And  the  thought  flashed 
through  her  mind,  "Stephen  will  be  there.  Even  if 
everything  is  over,  I'd  like  him  to  see  me." 

"I'll  come  for  you  a  little  before  ten,"  said  Corinna; 
and  then,  as  the  door  of  the  library  opened  and  Vetch 
came  out,  she  added  hurriedly:  "I  must  go  now.  Re 
member  to  look  your  prettiest." 

"No,  don't  go,"  begged  Patty.  "Father  will  be  so 
disappointed."  She  had  remembered  the  message, 
and  she  felt  that  Corinna,  whose  wisdom  was  infallible, 
might  help  her  to  understand  it.  Though  it  had 
sounded  so  casual  on  the  surface,  her  natural  sagacity 
detected  both  a  warning  and  a  menace;  and  the  very 
touch  of  Corinna's  hand,  in  her  long  white  glove,  was 
reassuring  and  helpful. 

Whatever  may  have  threatened  Vetch,  he  seemed 
oblivious  of  it  as  he  came  forward  with  his  hearty 
greeting.  "It's  queer,"  he  said,  "but  something 
told  me  you  were  here.  I  looked  out  to  make  sure." 
His  simple  pleasure  touched  Corinna  like  the  artless 
joy  of  a  child.  It  was  impossible  to  resist  his  magne 
tism,  she  thought,  as  she  looked  up  into  his  sanguine 


MYSTIFICATION  277 

face,  for  what  was  it,  after  all,  except  an  unaffected 
enjoyment  of  little  things,  an  unconquerable  belief 
in  life? 

"I  stopped  to  ask  Patty  about  a  dance,"  she  ex 
plained.  "I  must  go  on  immediately." 

He  glanced  at  the  girl  a  little  anxiously.  "Is  she 
going  to  a  party  with  you?  I  am  glad." 

In  spite  of  his  buoyant  manner,  there  was  an  ab 
stracted  look  in  his  eyes,  as  if  his  mind  were  working 
at  a  distance  while  he  talked.  After  the  first  minute 
or  two  Patty  observed  this  and  it  helped  her  to  make 
her  decision.  "Are  you  busy,  Father?"  she  asked.  "I 
promised  Mr.  Gershom  that  I  would  give  you  a  mes 
sage — such  a  silly  message  it  is  too." 

"Gershom?"  He  repeated,  and  his  face  darkened. 
"What  did  he  say  to  you?  No,  don't  go,  Mrs.  Page. 
Come  into  the  library,  and  let  us  have  the  message." 

Corinna  glanced  uncertainly  over  her  shoulder.  "I 
really  must  be  going,"  she  murmured,  and  then  yielding 
suddenly  either  to  inclination  or  to  the  pressure  of 
Patty's  hand,  she  crossed  the  threshold  of  the  library 
and  walked  over  to  the  front  window.  Outside,  be 
yond  the  yard  and  the  grotesque  fountain,  she  saw 
the  splendid  outline  of  Washington,  and  beyond  this 
the  faint  afternoon  haze  above  the  spires  and  chim 
neys  of  the  city.  "The  sun  will  go  down  soon.  I  must 
hurry,"  she  thought;  yet  she  stood  there,  without 
moving,  looking  out  on  the  monument  and  the  sky. 
For  a  moment  she  gazed  in  silence;  then  turning 
quickly,  she  glanced  with  smiling  eyes  about  the  small, 
stiffly  furnished  room,  with  the  leather  chairs  and 
couch  and  the  business  looking  writing-table  in  the 
centre  of  the  floor. 


278  ONE  MAN  IN  HIS  TIME 

"How  comfortable  you  look  here,"  she  observed 
lightly,  "and  how  business-like." 

"Yes,  I  work  here  a  good  deal  in  the  evenings." 
He  turned  a  chair  toward  the  window,  and  when  she  sat 
down,  he  remained  for  a  minute  still  standing,  with  his 
hand  on  the  back  of  the  chair,  smiling  thoughtfully  not 
at  her,  but  at  the  disarray  on  his  desk.  The  glow  of 
pleasure  which  the  sight  of  her  had  brought  was  still 
in  his  face;  and  she  thought  that  she  had  never  seen 
him  so  nearly  good-looking.  It  occurred  to  her  now, 
as  it  had  done  so  often  before,  that  in  the  hour  of 
trouble  he  would  be  like  a  rock  to  lean  on.  However 
else  he  might  fail,  she  surmised  that  in  human  relations 
he  would  be  for  ever  dependable.  And  what  was  life, 
after  all,  except  a  complex  and  intricate  blend  of 
human  relations?  She  decided  suddenly  and  positively 
that  she  had  always  liked  Gideon  Vetch.  She  liked 
the  way  his  broad  bulging  forehead  swept  back  into 
his  sandy  hair,  which  was  quite  gray  on  the  temples; 
she  liked  the  contrast  between  the  quizzical  humour 
in  his  eyes  and  the  earnest  expression  of  his  generous 
mouth  with  its  deep  corners.  He  stood  in  her  mind 
for  the  straight  and  simple  things  of  life,  and  she  had 
lost  her  way  so  often  among  the  bewildering  ramifica 
tion  of  human  motives.  He  had  no  trivial  words,  she 
knew.  He  was  incapable  of  "making  conversation"; 
and  she,  who  had  been  bred  in  a  community  of  cease 
less  chatter,  was  mentally  refreshed  by  the  sincerity  of 
his  interest.  It  was  as  restful,  she  said  to  herself  now, 
as  a  visit  to  the  country. 

"So  Gershom  asked  you  to  give  me  a  message?" 
remarked  Vetch  abruptly  to  Patty.  "Where  did  you 
see  him?" 


MYSTIFICATION  279 

"He  joined  me  when  I  went  out,"  replied  Patty, 
speaking  slowly  and  carefully  with  her  eyes  on  Corinna. 
"I  tried  to  slip  away,  but  he  wouldn't  let  me.  He 
asked  me  to  speak  to  you  about  something  that  was 
worrying  him,  and  a  great  many  others,  he  said.  He 
didn't  put  it  into  words,  but  I  think  he  meant  the 
strike " 

Vetch  looked  up  quickly.  "Oh,  that  is  worrying 
him,  is  it?" 

"What  is  it  all  about,  Father?  Why  are  they 
going  to  strike?" 

"Can  you  answer  that,  Mrs.  Page?"  The  Governor 
turned  to  Corinna  with  a  sportive  gesture,  as  if  he  were 
casting  upon  her  the  burden  of  a  reply.  His  smile 
was  sketched  so  faintly  about  his  mouth  that  it  seemed 
merely  to  emphasize  the  gravity  of  his  expression. 

"I?"  Corinna  looked  round  with  a  start  of  sur 
prise.  "Why,  what  should  I  know  of  it?" 

"Then  they  don't  talk  about  it  where  you  are?" 

"Oh,  yes,  they  talk  about  it  a  great  deal."  She 
appeared  to  hesitate,  and  then  added  with  deliberate 
audacity,  "but  they  think  that  you  know  more  about 
it  than  any  one  else." 

He  did  not  smile  as  he  answered  her.  "Do  they 
expect  the  men  to  strike?" 

Though  she  made  a  graceful  gesture  of  evasion,  she 
met  his  question  frankly.  "They  expect  them  to,  I 
gather — unless  you  prevent  it." 

A  shade  of  irritation  crossed  his  features.  "How 
can  I  prevent  it?  They  have  a  right  to  stop  work." 

"They  seem  to  think,  the  people  I  know,  that  it 
depends  upon  how  safe  the  leaders  think  it  will  be." 

"How  safe?     I  can't  tie  their  hands,  can  I?" 


280  ONE  MAN  IN  HIS  TIME 

"Of  course  I  am  only  repeating  what  I  hear."  She 
gazed  at  him  with  friendly  eyes.  "No  one  could 
know  less  about  it  than  I  do." 

"People  are  saying,  I  suppose,"  he  continued  in 
a  tone  of  exasperation,  "that  these  men  had  an  under 
standing  with  me  before  I  came  into  office.  They 
seem  to  think  that  I  can  make  the  strike  a  success  by 
standing  aside  and  holding  my  hands.  That,  of 
course,  is  pure  nonsense.  If  the  men  want  to  stop 
work,  nobody  has  a  right  to  interfere  with  them.  Cer 
tainly  I  haven't.  But  have  they  the  right — the  ques 
tion  hangs  on  this  point — to  interfere  with  the  farmers 
who  want  to  get  their  crops  to  market  as  badly  as  the 
strikers  want  to  quit  work?  The  kind  of  general 
strike  these  people  have  in  mind  bears  less  relation  to 
industry  than  it  does  to  war;  and  you  know  what  I 
think  about  war  and  the  rights  of  non-combatants. 
They  want  to  tie  up  the  whole  system  of  transportation 
until  they  starve  their  opponents  into  submission.  The 
old  damnable  Prussian  theory  again,  you  see,  that 
crops  up  wherever  men  take  the  stand,  which  they 
do  everywhere  they  have  the  power,  that  might  is 
a  law  unto  itself.  Now,  I  am  with  these  men  exactly 
half  way,  and  no  further.  As  long  as  their  method  of 
striking  doesn't  interfere  with  the  rights  of  the  public, 
they  seem  to  me  fair  enough.  But  when  it  comes  to 
raising  the  price  of  food  still  higher  and  cutting  off  the 
city  milk  supply — well,  when  they  talk  of  that,  then 
I  begin  to  think  of  the  human  side  of  it."  He  broke 
off  abruptly,  and  concluded  in  a  less  serious  tone, 
"that's  the  only  thing  in  the  whole  business  I  care 
about — the  human  side  of  it  all " 

A  phrase   of  Benham's  floated   suddenly   into  her 


MYSTIFICATION  281 

mind,  and  she  found  herself  repeating  it  aloud:  "There 
are  no  human  rights  where  a  principle  is  involved." 

Vetch  laughed.  "That's  not  you;  it's  Benham. 
I  recognize  it.  He's  the  sort  that  would  believe  that, 
I  suppose — the  sort  that  would  write  a  political  docu 
ment  in  blood  if  he  didn't  have  ink." 

"Oh,  don't!"  she  protested.  There  was  a  grain  of 
truth  in  the  epigram,  but  she  resented  it  the  more  keenly 
for  this. 

"Well,  I  may  have  intended  it  as  a  compliment," 
rejoined  Vetch  gaily.  "He  would  take  it  that  way, 
I  reckon.  And,  anyhow,  you  have  heard  him  make 
worse  flings  at  me." 

She  coloured,  admitting  and  denying  at  the  same 
time,  the  truth  of  his  words.  "You  could  never  under 
stand  each  other.  You  are  so  different." 

He  looked  at  her  gravely;  but  even  gravity  could 
not  wholly  drive  the  gleam  of  humour  from  his  eyes. 
"At  any  rate  I  admire  Benham.  I  have  the  ad 
vantage  of  him  there."  The  quickness  of  his  wit 
made  her  smile.  "But,  as  you  say,  we  are  different," 
he  added  after  a  moment.  "I  reckon  I've  turned  my 
hand  at  times  to  jobs  of  which  Benham  would  dis 
approve;  but  I'd  be  hanged  before  I'd  write  the  greatest 
document  ever  penned  in — well,  in  the  blood  of  one 
of  those  squirrels  out  yonder  in  the  Square!" 

As  he  finished  he  turned  his  face  toward  the  window, 
and  following  his  gaze,  she  saw  the  sunlight  sparkling  like 
amber  wine  on  the  rich  grass  and  the  delicate  green 
of  the  trees.  As  she  looked  back  at  him,  she  won 
dered  what  his  past  could  have  been — how  deep,  how 
complex,  how  varied  was  his  experience  of  life?  She 
was  aware  again  of  that  curiously  primitive  attraction 


282  ONE  MAN  IN  HIS  TIME 

which  she  had  felt  the  other  afternoon  in  the  shop.  It 
was  as  if  he  appealed,  not  to  the  beliefs  and  sentiments 
with  which  life  had  obscured  and  muffled  her  nature, 
but  to  some  buried  self  beneath  the  self  that  she  and 
the  world  knew,  to  some  ancient  instinct  which  was 
as  deep  as  the  oldest  forests  of  earth.  After  all,  was 
there  a  hidden  self,  a  buried  forest  within  her  soul 
which  she  had  never  discovered? 

"But  Patty  has  not  given  you  her  message!"  she 
exclaimed,  startled  and  confused  by  the  strangeness 
of  the  sensation. 

"Oh,  there  isn't  much  to  tell,"  answered  Patty, 
wondering  if  she  could  ever  learn,  even  if  she  practised 
every  day,  to  speak  and  move  like  Corinna.  "It  was 
only  that  you  ought  to  stand  by  your  friends." 

"To  stand  by  my  friends,"  repeated  Vetch;  then  he 
drew  in  his  breath  with  a  whistling  sound.  "Well,  I 
like  his  impudence!"  he  exclaimed. 

Corinna  rose  with  a  laugh.  "So  do  I,"  she  ob 
served,  "and  he  seems  to  possess  it  in  abundance." 
Then  she  folded  Patty  in  a  light  and  fragrant  embrace. 
"You  must  be  the  belle  of  the  ball,"  she  said.  "I 
have  a  genius  for  being  a  chaperon." 

When  she  had  gone,  and  they  watched  her  car  pass 
the  monument,  the  girl  turned  back  into  the  hall,  with 
her  hand  clinging  tightly  to  Vetch's  arm. 

"Father,  what  do  you  suppose  that  message  meant?" 

"Is  it  obliged  to  mean  anything?" 

"Things  generally  do,  don't  they?" 

Vetch  smiled  as  he  looked  down  at  her;  but  his 
smile  conveyed  anxiety  rather  than  amusement  to  her 
observant  eyes.  "Oh,  if  things  are  said  by  Gershom, 
they  generally  mean  hell,"  he  responded.  "Perhaps 


MYSTIFICATION  283 

I'll  find  out  Thursday  night;  there's  to  be  a  meeting 
then,  and  it  looks  as  if  somebody  might  make  trouble." 
Then  he  patted  her  shoulder.  "Don't  worry  about 
Gershom,  honey,"  he  added  in  the  way  he  used  to 
speak  when  she  fell  and  hurt  herself  as  a  child.  "Don't 
worry  your  mind  about  Gershom.  I'll  take  care  of 
him."  * 

It  was  on  the  tip  of  her  tongue  to  tell  him  that  she 
was  not  worrying  about  Gershom,  but  about  the  woman 
dying  all  alone  in  that  dark  room  in  Leigh  Street.  If 
he  had  only  looked  less  disturbed  she  might  have  done 
so;  and  when  she  thought  of  it  afterward,  she  under 
stood  that  frankness  would  have  been  by  far  the 
wiser  course.  However,  while  she  wondered  what  she 
ought  to  say,  the  opportunity  slipped  by,  and  the  ring 
ing  of  the  telephone  on  his  desk  called  him  away  from 
her. 

Corinna,  meanwhile,  was  rolling  down  the  drive 
over  the  slanting  shadows  of  the  linden  trees.  She 
looked  thoughtful,  for  she  was  trying  to  decide  what 
it  was  about  Vetch  that  made  her  believe  in  him  so 
profoundly  when  she  was  with  him  and  yet  begin  to 
distrust  him  as  soon  as  she  got  far  enough  away  to  gain 
a  perspective?  Gossip  probably,  she  reflected.  When 
she  was  with  him  her  confidence  was  the  natural  re 
sponse  of  her  own  unbiassed  perceptions;  when  she  left 
him  she  passed  immediately  into  an  atmosphere  that 
was  charged  with  the  suspicions  of  other  people.  She 
remembered  the  stories,  true  or  false,  which  had  been 
hinted  and  whispered  before  the  last  election.  Ma 
licious  gossip  that,  and  as  unfounded  no  doubt  as  the 
rest.  She  recalled  the  muttered  insinuations  of  fraud 
ulent  political  stratagems,  of  what  Benham  had  called 


284  ONE  MAN  IN  HIS  TIME 

the  Governor's  weathercock  principles.  In  Vetch's 
presence,  she  realized  that  she  invariably  lost  sight  of 
these  structural  or  surface  blemishes,  and  judged  him 
by  some  standard  which  was  different  from  the  one  she 
had  inherited  with  the  shape  of  her  nose  and  the  colour 
of  her  eyes.  What  troubled  her  was  not  so  much  the 
riddle  of  Vetch's  personality  as  the  fact  that  there  was 
another  mental  world  beyond  the  one  she  had  always 
inhabited,  and  that  this  other  world  was  filled,  like  her 
own,  with  obscure  moral  and  spiritual  images. 

As  she  approached  the  club  at  the  corner  she  saw 
Benham  come  out  of  the  door;  and  stopping  the  car  she 
waited,  smiling,  until  he  joined  her.  While  she  watched 
him  cross  the  pavement,  she  rejoiced  in  the  thorough 
bred  fineness  and  thinness  of  his  appearance — in  his 
clear-cut  Roman  features  and  in  the  impenetrable 
reticence  of  his  expression.  Yes,  she  loved  him  as 
well  as  she  could  love  any  man;  and  that,  she  told 
herself,  with  a  touch  of  cynical  amusement,  was  just 
so  much  and  no  more,  just  enough  to  bring  happiness, 
but  not  enough  to  bring  pain. 

"I'll  take  you  home,"  she  said,  as  he  reached  her, 
and  there  seemed  to  her  something  delightful  and  ro 
mantic  in  this  accidental  meeting. 

"What  luck!"  The  severity  melted  from  his  fea 
tures  while  he  took  his  place  beside  her.  "I  was 
thinking  only  this  morning  that  I  owe  a  sacrifice  to 
the  god  of  chance.  May  I  tell  the  man  to  drop  me 
at  my  rooms?" 

She  nodded,  watching  him  contentedly  while  he 
spoke  to  the  chauffeur  and  then  turned  to  look  at  her 
with  his  level  impersonal  gaze.  Happiness  had  brought 
the  youth  back  to  her  face.  Her  hair  swept  like 


MYSTIFICATION  285 

burnished  wings  under  her  small  close  hat,  and  the 
eyes  that  she  raised  to  his  were  dark  and  splendid. 
There  was  about  her  always  in  moments  of  happiness 
the  look  of  a  beauty  too  bright  to  last  or  to  grow  old; 
and  now,  in  this  last  romance  of  her  life,  she  appeared 
to  be  drenched  in  autumn  sunshine. 

"One  does  want  to  make  sacrifices,"  she  answered. 
"That  is  the  penalty  of  joy.  One  can  scarcely  believe 
in  it  before  it  goes." 

"Well,  I  believe  in  this.  You  are  very  lovely.  Where 
have  you  been?" 

"To  the  Governor's.  I  wanted  to  speak  to  Patty. 
I  feel  sorry  for  Patty  to-day.  I  feel  sorry  for  almost 
every  one,"  she  added,  with  an  enchanting  smile,  "ex 
cept  myself." 

"And  me.  Surely  you  don't  waste  your  pity  on  me? 
But  what  of  Miss  Vetch?  Hasn't  she  her  own  particu 
lar  happiness?" 

"I  wonder "  Then,  without  finishing  her  sen 
tence,  she  left  the  subject  of  Patty  because  she  sur 
mised  from  Benham's  tone  that  he  would  not  be 
sympathetic.  "I  had  a  long  talk  with  the  Governor. 
John,  what  do  you  think  will  come  of  the  strike?" 

He  answered  her  question  with  another.  "What 
did  he  tell  you?" 

"Nothing  except  that  the  men  have  a  right  to 
strike  if  they  wish  to." 

He  laughed.  "Well,  that's  safe  enough.  But  don't 
talk  of  Vetch.  I  dislike  him  so  heartily  that  I  have  a 
sneaking  feeling  I  may  be  unjust  to  him." 

It  was  so  like  him,  that  fine  impersonal  sense  of 
fairness,  that  her  eyes  warmed  with  admiration. 
"That  is  splendid,"  she  responded.  "It  is  just  the 


286  ONE  MAN  IN  HIS  TIME 

kind  of  thing  that  Vetch  could  never  feel."  Suddenly 
she  knew  that  she  was  ashamed  of  having  believed 
in  Vetch  when  she  contrasted  him  with  John  Benham. 
How  could  she  have  imagined  for  an  instant  that  the 
Governor  could  stand  a  comparison  like  this? 

He  pressed  her  hand  as  the  car  stopped  before  the 
apartment  house  where  he  lived.  "In  a  few  hours  I 
shall  see  you  again,"  he  said;  and  his  voice,  in  its  eager 
ness,  reminded  her  of  the  voice  of  Kent  Page  when  he 
had  made  love  to  her  in  her  girlhood.  Ah,  she  had 
learned  wisdom  since  then!  Just  so  much  and  no 
more,  that  was  the  secret  of  happiness.  Give  with  the 
mind  and  the  heart;  but  keep  always  one  inviolable 
sanctity  of  the  spirit — of  the  buried  self  beneath  the 
self. 

The  streets  were  almost  deserted;  and  as  the  car 
went  on,  Corinna  thought  that  she  had  never  seen  the 
city  look  so  fresh  and  charming.  Through  the  long 
green  vista  of  the  trees,  there  was  a  shimmer  of  silver 
air,  and  wrapped  in  this  sparkling  veil,  she  saw  the 
bronze  statues  and  the  ardent  glow  of  the  sunset. 
Everything  at  which  she  looked  was  steeped  in  a 
wonderful  golden  light;  and  this  light  seemed  to  come, 
not  from  the  burning  horizon,  but  from  the  happiness 
that  flooded  her  thoughts.  She  saw  the  world  again 
as  she  had  seen  it  in  her  first  youth,  suffused  with  joy 
that  was  like  the  vivid  freshness  of  dawn.  The  long  white 
road,  the  arching  trees,  the  glittering  dust,  the  spring 
flowers  blooming  in  gardens  along  the  roadside,  the  very 
faces  of  the  people  who  passed  her;  all  these  things  at 
which  she  looked  were  illuminated  by  this  radiance 
which  seemed,  in  some  strange  way,  to  shine  not  with 
out  but  within  her  heart.  "It  is  too  beautiful  to  last," 


MYSTIFICATION  287 

she  said  to  herself  in  a  whisper.  "It  is  youth,  more 
beautiful  even  than  the  reality,  come  back  again  for  an 
hour — for  one  little  hour  before  it  goes  out  for  ever." 

Then,  because  it  seemed  safer  as  well  as  wiser  to  be 
practical,  to  discourage  wild  dreaming,  she  tried  to 
direct  her  thoughts  to  insignificant  details.  Yet  even 
here  that  rare  golden  light  penetrated  to  the  innermost 
recesses  of  her  mind;  and  each  drab  uninteresting  fact 
glittered  with  a  fresh  interest  and  charm.  "I  forgot 
to  order  that  cretonne  for  the  porch,"  she  thought 
disconnectedly,  in  an  endeavour  to  conciliate  the  Fates 
by  pretending  that  life  was  as  commonplace  as  it  had 
always  been.  "That  black  background  with  the  blue 
larkspur  is  pretty — and  I  must  have  the  porch  furniture 
repainted  the  blue-green  that  they  do  so  well  in  Italy. 
That  reminds  me  that  Patty  must  be  the  belle  of  the 
dance  in  her  green  dress.  I  shall  see  that  she  has  no 
lack  of  partners — at  least  I  can  manage  that — if  I  can 
not  make  her  happy.  I  am  sorry  for  the  child — if  only 

Stephen — but,  no I  left  the  book  I  was  reading  in 

the  shop.  What  was  the  name  of  it?  Silly  and  senti 
mental!  Why  will  people  always  write  things  they 
don't  mean  and  know  are  not  true  about  love?  Yes, 
the  black  background  with  the  blue  larkspur  was  the 
best  that  I  saw.  I  wonder  what  I  did  with  the  sample. 
Oh,  why  can't  everybody  be  happy?" 

The  car  turned  out  of  the  road  into  the  avenue  of 
elms,  which  led  to  the  Georgian  house  of  red  brick,  with 
its  quaint  hooded  doorway.  In  front  of  the  door  there 
was  a  flagged  walk  edged  with  box;  and  after  the  car 
had  gone,  Corinna  followed  this  walk  to  the  back  of  the 
house,  where  rows  of  white  and  purple  iris  were  bloom 
ing  on  the  garden  terrace.  For  a  moment  she  looked  on 


288  ONE  MAN  IN  HIS  TIME 

the  garden  as  one  who  loved  it;  then  turning  reluctantly, 
she  ascended  the  steps,  and  entered  the  door  which  a 
coloured  servant  held  open. 

"A  lady's  in  there  waiting  for  you,"  said  the  man, 
who  having  lost  the  dialect,  still  retained  the  dramatic 
gestures  of  his  race.  "She  would  wait,  and  she  says 
she  can't  go  without  seeing  you." 

With  a  faintness  of  the  heart  rather  than  the  mind, 
Corinna  looked  through  the  doorway,  and  saw  the  face 
of  Alice  Rokeby  glimmering  narcissus  white  in  the  dusk 
of  the  drawing-room. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

THE  SIXTH  SENSE 

As  CORINNA  went  forward,  with  that  strange  pre 
monitory  chill  at  her  heart,  it  seemed  to  her  that  all  the 
fragrance  of  the  garden  floated  toward  her  with  a 
piercing  sweetness  that  wras  the  very  essence  of  youth 
and  spring.  Through  the  wide-open  French  windows 
she  could  see  the  garden  terrace,  the  pale  rows  of  iris, 
and  the  straight  black  cedars  rising  against  the  pome 
granate-coloured  light  of  the  afterglow.  A  few  tall 
white  candles  were  shining  in  old  silver  candlesticks ;  but 
it  was  by  the  vivid  tint  in  the  sky  that  she  saw  the  large, 
frightened  eyes  of  the  woman  who  was  waiting  for 
her. 

"If  I  had  only  known  you  were  here,  I  should  have 
hurried  home,"  began  Corinna  cordially.  Drawing  a 
chair  close  to  her  visitor,  she  sat  down  with  a  movement 
that  was  protecting  and  reassuring.  Her  quick  sympa 
thies  were  already  aroused.  She  surmised  that  Alice 
Rokeby  had  come  to  her  because  she  was  in  trouble;  and 
it  was  not  in  Corinna' s  nature  to  refuse  to  hear  or  to  help 
any  one  who  appealed  to  her. 

Alice  threw  back  her  lace  veil  as  if  she  were  stifled  by 
the  transparent  mesh.  "In  the  shop  there  are  so  many 
interruptions,"  she  answered.  "I  wanted  to  see 
you "  Breaking  off  hurriedly,  she  hesitated  an 

instant,  and  then  repeated  nervously,  "I  wanted  to  see 
you » 


290  ONE  MAN  IN  HIS  TIME 

Corinna  smiled  at  her.  "Would  you  like  to  go  out 
into  the  garden?  May  is  so  lovely  there." 

"No,  it  is  very  pleasant  here."  Alice  made  a  vague, 
helpless  gesture  with  her  small  hands,  and  said  for  the 
third  time,  "I  wanted  to  see  you " 

"I  am  afraid  you  are  not  well."  Corinna  spoke  very 
gently.  "Perhaps  it  is  not  too  late  for  tea,  or  may  I 
get  you  a  glass  of  wine?  All  winter  I've  intended  to 
go  and  inquire  because  I  heard  you'd  been  ill.  It  has 
been  so  long  since  we  really  saw  anything  of  each 
other;  but  I  remember  you  quite  well  as  a  little  girl — 
such  a  pretty  little  girl  you  were  too.  You  are  ever  so 
much  younger,  at  least  ten  years  younger,  than  I  am." 

As  she  rippled  on,  trying  to  give  the  other  time  to 
recover  herself,  she  thought  how  lovely  Alice  had  once 
been,  and  how  terribly  she  had  broken  since  her  divorce 
and  her  illness.  She  would  always  be  appealing — the 
kind  of  woman  with  whom  men  easily  fell  in  love — but 
one  so  soon  reached  the  end  of  mere  softness  and  pretti- 
ness. 

"Yes,  you  were  one  of  the  older  girls,"  answered 
Alice,  "and  I  admired  you  so  much.  I  used  to  sit  on 
the  front  porch  for  hours  to  watch  you  go  by." 

"And  then  I  went  abroad,  and  we  lost  sight  of  each 
other." 

"We  both  married,  and  I  got  a  divorce  last  year." 

"I  heard  that  you  did."  It  seemed  futile  to  offer 
sympathy. 

"My  marriage  was  a  mistake.  I  was  very  unhappy. 
I  have  had  a  hard  life,"  said  Alice,  and  her  lower  lip, 
as  soft  as  a  baby's,  trembled  nervously.  How  little 
character  there  was  in  her  face,  how  little  of  anything 
except  that  indefinable  allurement  of  sex! 


THE  SIXTH  SENSE  291 

"I  know,"  responded  Corinna  consolingly.  She  felt 
so  strong  beside  this  helpless,  frightened  woman  that  the 
old  ache  to  comfort,  to  heal  pain,  was  like  a  pang  in  her 
heart. 

"Everything  has  failed  me,"  murmured  Alice,  with  the 
restless  volubility  of  a  weak  nature.  "I  thought  there 
was  something  that  would  make  up  for  what  I  had 
missed — something  that  would  help  me  to  live — but 
that  has  failed  me  like  everything  else " 

"Things  will  fail,"  assented  Corinna,  with  sympathy, 
"if  we  lean  too  hard  on  them." 

A  delicate  flush  had  come  into  Alice's  face,  bringing 
back  for  a  moment  her  old  flower-like  loveliness.  Her 
fine  brown  hair  drooped  in  a  wave  on  her  forehead,  and 
beneath  it  her  violet  eyes  were  deep  and  wistful. 

"What  a  beautiful  room!"  she  said  in  a  quivering 
voice.  "And  the  garden  is  like  one  in  an  old  English 
song." 

"Yes,  I  hardly  know  which  I  love  best — my  garden 
or  my  shop." 

The  words  were  so  far  from  Comma's  thoughts  that 
they  seemed  to  drift  to  her  from  some  distant  point  in 
space,  out  of  the  world  beyond  the  garden  and  the 
black  brows  of  the  cedars.  They  were  as  meaningless 
as  the  wind  that  brought  them,  or  the  whirring  of  the 
white  moth  at  the  window.  Beneath  her  vacant  words 
and  expressionless  gestures,  which  were  like  the  words 
and  gestures  of  an  automaton,  she  was  conscious  of  a 
profound  current  of  feeling  which  flowed  steadily  be 
tween  Alice  Rokeby  and  herself;  and  on  this  current 
there  was  borne  all  the  inarticulate  burden  of  woman 
hood.  "Poor  thing,  she  wants  me  to  help  her,"  she 
thought;  but  aloud  she  said  only:  "The  roses  are  doing 


ONE  MAN  IN  HIS  TIME 

so  well  this  year.  They  will  be  the  finest  I  have  ever 
had." 

Suddenly  Alice  lowered  her  veil  and  rose.  "I  must 
go.  It  is  late,"  she  said,  and  held  out  her  hand.  Then, 
while  she  stood  there,  with  her  hand  still  outstretched, 
all  that  she  had  left  unspoken  appeared  to  rush  over  her 
in  a  torrent,  and  she  asked  rapidly,  while  her  lips  jerked 
like  the  lips  of  a  hurt  child,  "Is  it  true,  Corinna,  that 
you  are  going  to  marry  John  Benham?" 

For  an  instant  Corinna  looked  at  her  without  speak 
ing.  The  sympathy  in  her  heart  ceased  as  quickly  as  a 
fountain  that  is  stopped;  and  she  was  conscious  only 
of  that  lifeless  chill  with  which  she  had  entered  the 
room.  Now  that  the  question  had  come,  she  knew  that 
she  had  dreaded  it  from  the  first  moment  her  eyes  had 
rested  on  the  face  of  her  visitor,  that  she  had  expected 
it  from  the  instant  when  she  had  heard  that  a  woman 
awaited  her  in  the  house.  It  was  something  of  which 
she  had  been  aware,  and  yet  of  which  she  had  been 
scarcely  conscious — as  if  the  knowledge  had  never  pen 
etrated  below  the  surface  of  her  perceptions.  And  it 
would  be  so  easy,  she  knew,  to  evade  it  now  as  she  had 
evaded  it  from  the  beginning,  to  push  to-day  into 
to-morrow  for  the  rest  of  her  life.  Nothing  stood  in 
her  way;  nothing  but  that  deep  instinct  for  truth  on 
which,  it  seemed  to  her  now,  most  of  her  associations 
with  men  had  been  wrecked.  Then,  because  she  was 
obliged  to  obey  the  law  of  her  nature,  she  answered 
simply,  "Yes,  we  expect  to  be  married." 

A  strangled  sound  broke  from  Alice's  lips,  but  she 
bit  it  back  before  it  had  formed  into  a  word.  The  hand 
that  she  had  thrown  out  blindly  fell  on  the  fringe  of  her 
gown,  and  she  began  knitting  it  together  with  trembling 


THE  SIXTH  SENSE  293 

fingers.  "Has  he — does  he  care  for  you?"  she  asked 
presently  in  that  hurried  voice. 

For  the  second  time  Corinna  hesitated;  and  in  that 
instant  of  hesitation,  she  broke  irrevocably  with  the 
past  and  with  the  iron  rule  of  tradition.  She  knew  how 
her  mother,  how  her  grandmother,  how  all  the  strong 
and  quiet  women  of  her  race  would  have  borne  them 
selves  in  a  crisis  like  this — the  implications  and  evasions 
which  would  have  walled  them  within  the  garden  that 
was  their  world.  Her  mother,  she  realized,  would  have 
been  as  incapable  of  facing  the  situation  as  she  would 
have  been  of  creating  it. 

"Yes,  he  cares  for  me,"  she  answered  frankly;  and 
then,  before  the  terror  that  leaped  into  the  eyes  of  the 
other  woman,  as  if  she  longed  to  turn  and  run  out  of  the 
house,  Corinna  touched  her  gently  on  the  shoulder. 
"Don't  look  like  that!"  It  was  unendurable  to  her 
compassionate  heart  that  she  should  have  brought  that 
look  into  the  eyes  of  any  living  creature. 

She  led  Alice  back  to  the  chairs  they  had  left;  and 
when  the  servant  came  in  to  turn  on  the  softly  shaded 
lamps,  they  sat  there,  facing  each  other,  in  a  silence  which 
seemed  to  Corinna  to  be  louder  than  any  sound.  There 
was  the  noise  of  wonder  in  it,  and  tragedy,  and  some 
thing  vaguely  menacing  to  which  she  could  not  give  a 
name.  It  was  fear,  and  yet  it  was  not  fear  because  it 
was  so  much  worse.  Only  the  blank  terror  in  Alice's 
face,  the  terror  of  the  woman  who  has  lost  hope, 
could  express  what  it  meant.  And  this  terror  trans 
lated  into  sound  asked  presently: 

"Are — are  you  sure?" 

A  wave  of  pity  surged  through  Corinna 's  heart.  Her 
strength  became  to  her  something  on  which  she  could 


294  ONE  MAN  IN  HIS  TIME 

rest — which  would  not  fail  her;  and  she  understood 
why  she  had  had  to  meet  so  many  disappointments 
in  life,  why  she  had  had  to  bear  so  much  that  was 
almost  unbearable.  It  was  because,  however  strong 
emotion  was  in  her  nature,  there  was  always  something 
deep  down  in  her  that  was  stronger  than  any  emotion. 
She  had  been  ruled  not  by  passion  but  by  law,  by  some 
clear  moral  discernment  of  things  as  they  ought  to  be; 
and  this  was  why  weak  persons,  or  those  who  were  the 
prey  to  their  own  natures,  leaned  on  her  with  all  their 
weight.  In  that  instant  of  self-realization  she  knew 
that  the  refuge  of  the  weak  would  be  for  ever  denied 
her,  that  she  should  always  be  alone  because  she  was 
strong  enough  to  rely  on  her  own  spirit. 

"Before  I  answer  your  question,"  she  said,  "I  must 
know  if  you  have  the  right  to  ask  it." 

The  wistful  eyes  grew  bright  again.  How  graceful 
she  was,  thought  Corinna  as  she  watched  her;  and  she 
knew  that  this  woman,  with  her  clinging  sweetness,  like 
the  sweetness  of  honeysuckle,  and  her  shallow  violence 
of  mood,  could  win  the  kind  of  love  that  had  been  de 
nied  to  her  own  royal  beauty.  This  other  woman  was 
the  ephemeral  incarnate,  the  thing  for  which  men 
gave  their  lives.  She  was  nothing;  and  therefore 
every  man  would  see  in  her  the  reflection  of  what  he 
desired. 

"I  have  the  right,"  she  answered  desperately,  without 
pride  and  without  shame.  "I  had  the  right  before  I  got 
my  divorce " 

"I  understand,"  said  Corinna,  and  her  voice  was 
scarcely  more  than  a  breath.  Though  she  did  not 
withdraw  the  hand  that  the  other  had  taken,  she  looked 
away  from  her  through  the  French  window,  into  the 


THE  SIXTH  SENSE  295 

garden  where  the  twilight  was  like  the  bloom  on  a  grape. 
The  fragrance  became  suddenly  intolerable.  It  seemed 
to  her  to  be  the  scent  not  only  of  spring,  but  of  death 
also,  the  ghost  of  all  the  sweetness  that  she  had 
missed.  "I  shall  never  be  able  to  bear  the  smell  of 
spring  again  in  my  life,"  she  thought.  She  had  made 
no  movement  of  surprise  or  resentment,  for  there  was 
neither  surprise  nor  resentment  in  her  heart.  There 
was  pain,  which  was  less  pain  than  a  great  sadness;  and 
there  was  the  thought  that  she  was  very  lonely;  that 
she  must  always  be  lonely.  Many  thoughts  passed 
through  her  mind;  but  beyond  them,  stretching  far 
away  into  the  future,  she  saw  her  own  life  like  a 
deserted  road  filled  with  dead  leaves  and  the  sound  of 
distant  voices  that  went  by.  She  could  never  find  rest, 
she  knew.  Rest  was  the  one  thing  that  had  been  de 
nied  her — rest  and  love.  Her  destiny  was  the  destiny 
of  the  strong  who  must,  give  until  they  have  nothing 
left,  until  their  souls  are  stripped  bare.  "He  must 
have  cared  for  you,"  she  said  at  last.  Oh,  how  empty 
words  were!  How  empty  and  futile! 

"He  could  never  care  again  like  that  for  any  one 
else,"  replied  Alice,  reaching  out  her  hand  as  if  she  were 
pushing  away  an  object  she  feared.  "Whatever  he 
thinks  now,  he  could  never  care  that  much  again." 

Whatever  he  thinks  now!  A  smile  tinged  with 
bitter  knowledge  flickered  on  Corinna's  lips  for  an 
instant.  After  all,  how  little,  how  very  little  she  knew 
of  John  Benham.  She  had  seen  the  face  he  turned  to 
the  world;  she  had  seen  the  crude  outside  armour  of 
his  public  conscience.  A  laugh  broke  from  her  at 
the  phrase  because  she  remembered  that  Vetch  had 
first  used  it.  This  other  woman  had  entered  into  the 


296  ONE  MAN  IN  HIS  TIME 

secret  chamber,  the  hidden  places,  of  John  Benham's 
life;  she  had  been  a  part  of  the  light  and  darkness  of  his 
soul.  To  Corinna,  remembering  his  reserve,  his  dignity, 
his  moderation  in  thought  and  feeling,  there  was  a 
shock  in  the  discovery  that  the  perfect  balance,  the 
equilibrium  of  his  temperament,  had  been  overthrown. 
Certainly  in  their  serene  and  sentimental  association 
she  had  stumbled  on  no  hidden  fires,  no  reddening 
embers  of  that  earlier  passion.  Yet  she  understood 
that  even  in  her  girlhood,  even  in  the  April  freshness 
of  her  beauty,  she  had  never  touched  the  depths  of 
his  nature.  It  was  Alice  Rokeby — frightened  shallow, 
desperate,  deserted,  whom  he  had  loved. 

"What  do  you  want?"  she  asked  quietly.  "What 
do  you  wish  me  to  do?" 

"Oh,  I  don't  know!"  replied  Alice.  "I  don't  know. 
I  haven't  thought — but  there  ought  to  be  something. 
There  ought  to  be  something  more  permanent  than  love 
for  one  to  live  by." 

In  her  anguish  she  had  wrung  a  profound  truth  from 
experience;  and  as  soon  as  she  had  uttered  it,  she  lifted 
her  pale  face  and  stared  with  that  mournful  interro 
gation  into  the  twilight.  Something  permanent  to  live 
by !  In  the  mute  desperation  of  her  look  she  appeared 
to  be  searching  the  garden,  the  world,  and  the  immense 
darkness  of  the  sky,  for  an  answer.  The  afterglow  had 
faded  slowly  into  the  blue  dusk  of  night;  only  a  faint 
thread  of  gold  still  lingered  beyond  the  cedars  on  the 
western  horizon.  Something  permanent  and  inde 
structible!  Was  this  what  humanity  had  struggled 
for — had  lived  and  fought  and  died  for — since  man  first 
came  up  out  of  the  primeval  jungle?  Where  could  one 
find  unalterable  peace  if  it  were  not  high  above  the  ebb 


THE  SIXTH  SENSE  297 

and  flow  of  desire?  She  herself  might  break  away  from 
codes  and  customs;  but  she  could  not  break  away  from 
the  strain  of  honour,  of  simple  rectitude,  which  was  in 
her  blood  and  had  made  her  what  she  was. 

"Yes,  there  ought  to  be  something.  There  is  some 
thing,"  she  said  slowly.  Though  her  hand  still  clasped 
Alice  Rokeby's,  she  was  gazing  beyond  her  across  the 
terrace  into  the  garden.  She  thought  of  many  things 
while  she  sat  there,  with  that  look  of  clairvoyance,  of 
radiant  vision,  in  her  eyes.  Of  Alice  Rokeby  as  a  little 
girl  in  a  white  dress,  with  a  blue  hair  ribbon  that  would 
never  stay  tied;  of  John  Benham  when  she  had  played 
ball  with  him  in  her  childhood;  of  Kent  Page  and  that 
young  love,  so  poignant  while  it  lasted,  so  utterly  dead 
when  it  was  over;  of  her  long,  long  search  for  perfection, 
for  something  that  would  not  pass  away;  of  the  brief 
pleasures  and  the  vain  expectations  of  life;  of  the  gray 
deserted  road  filled  with  dead  leaves  and  the  sound  of 

voices  far  off Nothing  but  dead  leaves  and  distant 

voices  that  went  by!  In  spite  of  her  beauty,  her 
brilliance,  her  gallant  heart,  this  was  what  life  had 
brought  to  her  at  the  end.  Only  loneliness  and  the 
courage  of  those  who  have  given  always  and  never 
received. 

"There  is  something  else,"  she  said  again.  "There 
is  courage."  Then,  as  the  other  woman  made  no  reply, 
she  went  on  more  rapidly :  "  I  will  do  what  I  can.  It  is 
very  little.  I  cannot  change  him.  I  cannot  make 
him  feel  again.  But  you  can  trust  me.  You  are  safe 
with  me." 

"I  know  that,"  answered  Alice  in  a  voice  that 
sounded  muffled  and  husky.  "I  have  always  known 
that."  She  rose  and  readjusted  her  veil.  "That 


298  ONE  MAN  IN  HIS  TIME 

means  a  great  deal,"  she  added.  "Oh,  I  think  it 
means  that  the  world  has  grown  better!" 

Corinna  stooped  and  kissed  her.  "No,  it  only 
means  that  some  of  us  have  learned  to  live  without 
happiness." 

She  went  with  Alice  to  the  door,  and  then  stood 
watching  her  descend  the  steps  and  enter  the  small 
closed  car  in  the  drive.  There  was  a  touching  grace 
in  the  slight,  shrinking  figure,  as  if  it  embodied  in  a 
single  image  all  the  women  in  the  world  who  had  lost 
hope.  "Yet  it  is  the  weak,  the  passive,  who  get  what 
they  want  in  the  end,"  thought  Corinna,  as  dispassion 
ately  as  if  she  were  merely  a  spectator.  "I  suppose  it 
is  because  they  need  it  more.  They  have  never  learned 
to  do  without.  They  do  not  know  how  to  carry  a 
broken  heart."  Then  she  smiled  as  she  turned  back 
into  the  house.  "It  is  very  late,  and  the  only  certain 
rules  are  that  one  must  dine  and  one  must  dress  for 
dinner." 

A  little  later,  when  John  Benham  was  announced  and 
she  came  down  to  the  drawing-room,  her  first  glance  at 
his  face  told  her  that  she  must  be  looking  her  best.  She 
was  wearing  black,  and  beneath  the  white  lock  in  her 
dark  hair,  her  face  was  flushed  with  the  colour  of  happi 
ness.  Only  her  eyes,  velvet  soft  and  as  deep  as  a  forest 
pool,  had  a  haunted  look. 

"I  have  never,"  he  said,  "seen  you  look  better." 

She  laughed.  After  all,  one  might  permit  a  touch  of 
coquetry  in  the  final  renouncement!  "Perhaps  you 
have  never  really  seen  me  before." 

Though  he  looked  puzzled,  he  responded  gaily:  "On 
the  contrary,  I  have  seen  little  else  for  the  last  two  or 
three  months." 


THE  SIXTH  SENSE  299 

There  was  an  edge  of  irony  to  her  smile.  "Were  you 
looking  at  me  or  my  shadow?" 

He  shook  his  head.  "Are  shadows  ever  as  brilliant 
as  that?" 

Then  before  she  could  answer  the  Judge  came  in  with 
his  cordial  outstretched  hand  and  his  air  of  humorous 
urbanity,  as  if  he  were  too  much  interested  in  the  world 
to  censure  it,  and  yet  too  little  interested  to  take  it 
seriously.  His  face,  with  its  thin  austere  features  and 
its  kindly  expression,  showed  the  dryness  that  comes 
less  from  age  than  from  quality.  Benham,  looking  at 
him  closely,  thought,  "He  must  be  well  over  eighty, 
but  he  hasn't  changed  so  much  as  a  hair  of  his  head  in 
the  last  twenty  years." 

At  dinner  Corinna  was  very  gay;  and  her  father, 
whose  habit  it  was  not  to  inquire  too  deeply,  observed 
only  that  she  was  looking  remarkably  well.  The  dining- 
room  was  lighted  by  candles  which  flickered  gently  in 
the  breeze  that  rose  and  fell  on  the  terrace.  In  this 
wavering  illumination  innumerable  little  shadows,  like 
ghosts  of  butterflies,  played  over  the  faces  of  the  two 
men,  whose  features  were  so  much  alike  and  whose 
expressions  differed  so  perversely.  In  both  Nature 
had  bred  a  type;  custom  and  tradition  had  moulded 
the  plastic  substance  and  refined  the  edges ;  but,  stronger 
than  either  custom  or  tradition,  the  individual  tempera 
ment,  the  inner  spirit  of  each  man,  had  cast  the  trans 
forming  flame  and  shadow  over  the  outward  form. 
And  now  they  were  alike  only  in  their  long,  graceful 
figures,  in  their  thin  Roman  features,  in  their  general 
air  of  urbane  distinction. 

"We  were  talking  at  the  club  of  the  strike,"  said  the 
Judge,  who  had  finished  his  soup  with  a  manner  of  de- 


300  ONE  MAN  IN  HIS  TIME 

tachment,  and  sat  now  gazing  thoughtfully  at  his  glass 
of  sherry.  "The  opinion  seems  to  be  that  it  depends 
upon  Vetch." 

Benham's  voice  sounded  slightly  sardonical.  "How 
can  anything  depend  upon  a  weathercock?" 

"Well,  there's  a  chance,  isn't  there,  that  the  weather 
may  decide  it?" 

"Perhaps.  In  the  way  that  the  Governor  will  find 
to  his  advantage."  Benham  had  leaned  slightly  for 
ward,  and  his  face  looked  very  attractive  by  the  shim 
mering  flame  of  the  candles. 

"Isn't  that  the  way  most  of  us  decide  things,"  asked 
Corinna,  "if  we  know  what  is  really  to  our  ad 
vantage?" 

As  Benham  looked  up  he  met  her  eyes.  "In  this 
case,"  he  answered,  with  a  note  of  austerity,  as  if  he 
were  impatient  of  contradiction,  "the  advantage  to  the 
public  would  seem  to  be  the  only  one  worth  consider- 
ing." 

For  an  instant  a  wild  impulse,  born  of  suffering 
nerves,  passed  through  Corinna's  mind.  She  longed 
to  cry  out  in  the  tone  of  Julius  Gershom,  "Oh,  damn  the 
public!" — but  instead  she  remarked  in  the  formal 
accents  her  grandmother  had  employed  to  smooth 
over  awkward  impulses,  "Isn't  it  ridiculous  that  we 
can  never  get  away  from  Gideon  Vetch?" 

The  Judge  laughed  softly.  "He  has  a  pushing  man 
ner,"  he  returned;  and  then,  still  curiously  pursuing  the 
subject:  "Perhaps,  he  may  get  his  revenge  at  the  meet 
ing  Thursday  night." 

"Is  there  to  be  a  meeting?"  retorted  Corinna  in 
differently.  She  was  thinking,  "When  John  is  eighty 
he  will  look  like  Father.  I  shall  be  seventy-eight 


THE  SIXTH  SENSE  301 

when  he  is  eighty.  All  those  years  to  live,  and  noth 
ing  in  them  but  little  pleasures,  little  kindnesses,  little 
plans  and  ambitions.  Charity  boards  and  committee 
meetings  and  bridge.  That  is  what  life  is — just  pre 
tending  that  little  things  are  important." 

"That's  the  strikers'  meeting/5  the  Judge  was  saying 
over  his  glass  of  sherry.  "The  next  one  is  John's  idea. 
We  hope  to  arbitrate.  If  we  can  get  Vetch  interested 
there  may  be  a  settlement  of  some  sort." 

"  So  it's  Vetch  again !  Oh,  I  am  getting  so  tired  of  the 
name  of  Gideon  Vetch!"  laughed  Corinna.  And  she 
thought,  "If  only  I  didn't  have  to  play  on  the  flute 
all  my  life.  If  I  could  only  stop  playing  dance  music 
for  a  little  while,  and  break  out  into  a  funeral 
march!" 

"He  has  already  agreed  to  come,"  said  Benham, 
"but  I  expect  nothing  from  him.  I  have  formed  the 
habit  of  expecting  nothing  from  Vetch." 

"Well,  I  don't  know,"  replied  the  Judge.  "We 
may  persuade  him  to  stand  firm,  if  there  hasn't  been 
an  understanding  between  him  and  those  people." 
The  old  gentleman  always  used  the  expression  "those 
people"  for  persons  of  whose  opinions  he  disapproved. 

"You  know  what  I  think  of  Vetch,"  rejoined  Ben- 
ham,  with  a  shrug. 

It  seemed  to  Corinna,  watching  Benham  with  her 
thoughtful  gaze,  that  the  subject  wrould  never  change, 
that  they  would  argue  all  night  over  their  foolish  strike 
and  their  tiresome  meeting,  and  over  what  this  Gideon 
Vetch  might  or  might  not  do  in  some  problematic 
situation.  What  sentimentalists  men  were!  They 
couldn't  understand,  after  the  experience  of  a  million 
years,  that  the  only  things  that  really  counted  in  life 


302  ONE  MAN  IN  HIS  TIME 

were  human  relations.  They  were  obliged  to  go  on 
playing  a  game  of  bluff  with  their  consecrated  supersti 
tions — playing — playing — playing — and  yet  hiding  be 
hind  some  graven  image  of  authority  which  they  had 
built  out  of  stone.  Sentimental,  yes,  and  pathetic  too, 
when  one  thought  of  it  with  patience. 

When  dinner  was  over,  and  the  Judge  had  gone  to  a 
concert  in  town,  Corinna's  mockery  fell  from  her,  and 
she  sat  in  a  long  silence  watching  Benham's  enjoyment 
of  his  cigar.  It  occurred  to  her  that  if  he  were  stripped 
of  everything  else,  of  love,  of  power,  of  ambition,  he 
could  still  find  satisfaction  in  the  masculine  habit  of 
living — in  the  simple  pleasures  of  which  nothing  except 
physical  infirmity  or  extreme  poverty  can  ever  deprive 
one.  Moderate  in  all  things,  he  was  capable  of  taking 
a  serious  pleasure  in  his  meals,  in  his  cigar,  in  a  dip 
in  a  swimming  pool,  or  a  game  of  cards  at  the  club. 
Whatever  happened,  he  would  have  these  things  to  fall 
back  upon;  and  they  would  mean  to  him,  she  knew, 
far  more  than  they  could  ever,  even  in  direst  neces 
sity,  mean  to  a  woman. 

The  long  drawing-room,  lighted  with  an  amber  glow 
and  drenched  with  the  sweetness  of  honeysuckle,  had 
grown  very  still.  Outside  in  the  garden  the  twilight 
was  powdered  with  silver,  and  above  the  tops  of  the 
cedars  a  few  stars  were  shining.  A  breeze  came  in 
softly,  touching  her  cheek  like  the  wing  of  a  moth  and 
stirring  the  iris  in  a  bowl  by  the  window.  The  flowers 
in  the  room  were  all  white  and  purple,  she  observed 
with  a  tremulous  smile,  as  if  the  vivid  colours  had 
been  drained  from  both  her  life  and  her  surroundings. 
"What  a  foolish  fancy,"  she  added,  with  a  nervous 
force  that  sent  a  current  of  energy  through  her  veins. 


THE  SIXTH  SENSE  303 

"My  heart  isn't  broken,  and  it  will  never  be  until  I 
am  dead!" 

And  then,  with  that  natural  aptitude  for  facing  facts, 
for  looking  at  life  steadily  and  fearlessly,  which  had 
been  born  in  a  recoil  from  the  sentimental  habit  of 
mind,  she  said  quietly,  "John,  Alice  Rokeby  came  to 
see  me  this  afternoon." 

He  started,  and  the  ashes  dropped  from  his  cigar; 
but  there  was  no  embarrassment  in  the  level  glance  he 
raised  to  her  eyes.  Surprise  there  was,  and  a  puzzled 
interrogation,  but  of  confusion  or  disquietude  she  could 
find  no  trace. 

"Well?"  he  responded  inquiringly,  and  that  was  all. 

"You  used  to  care  for  her  a  great  deal — once?" 

He  appeared  to  ponder  the  question.  "We  were 
great  friends,"  he  answered. 

Friends!  The  single  word  seemed  to  her  to  express 
not  only  his  attitude  to  Alice  Rokeby,  but  his  temper 
amental  inability  to  call  things  by  their  right  names, 
to  face  facts,  to  follow  a  straight  line  of  thought.  Here 
was  the  epitome  of  that  evasive  idealism  which  pre 
ferred  shams  to  realities. 

"Are  you  still  friends?" 

He  shook  his  head.  "No,  we've  drifted  apart  in 
the  last  year  or  so.  I  used,"  he  said  slowly,  "to  go 
there  a  great  deal;  but  I've  had  so  many  responsibilities 
of  late  that  I've  fallen  into  the  habit  of  letting  other 
interests  go  in  a  measure." 

It  was  harder  even  than  she  had  imagined  it  would 
be — harder  because  she  realized  now  that  they  did  not 
speak  the  same  language.  She  felt  that  she  had  struck 
against  something  as  dry  and  cold  and  impersonal 
as  an  abstract  principle.  A  ludicrous  premonition 


304  ONE  MAN  IN  HIS  TIME 

assailed  her  that  in  a  little  while  he  would  begin  to  talk 
about  his  public  duty.  This  lack  of  genuine  emotion, 
which  had  at  first  appeared  to  contradict  his  sentimental 
point  of  view,  was  revealed  to  her  suddenly  as  its  su 
preme  justification.  Because  he  felt  nothing  deeply  he 
could  afford  to  play  brilliantly  with  the  names  of  emo 
tions;  because  he  had  never  suffered  his  duty  would 
always  lie,  as  Gideon  Vetch  had  once  said  of  him,  "in 
the  direction  of  things  he  could  not  hurt." 

"It  is  a  pity,"  she  said  gently,  "for  she  still  cares  for 
you." 

The  hand  that  held  his  cigar  trembled.  She  had 
penetrated  his  reserve  at  last,  and  she  saw  a  shadow 
which  was  not  the  shadow  of  the  wind-blown  flowers, 
cross  his  features. 

"Did  she  tell  you  that? "  he  asked  as  gently  as  she  had 
spoken. 

"There  was  no  need  to  tell  me.  I  saw  it  as  soon  as  I 
looked  at  her." 

For  a  moment  he  was  silent;  then  he  said  very  quietly, 
as  one  whose  controlling  motive  was  a  hatred  of  excess, 
of  unnecessary  fussiness  or  frankness:  "I  am  sorry." 

"Have  you  stopped  caring  for  her?" 

The  shadow  on  his  face  changed  into  a  look  of  per 
plexity.  When  he  spoke,  she  realized  that  he  had  mis 
taken  her  meaning;  and  for  an  instant  her  heart  beat 
wildly  with  resentment  or  apprehension. 

"I  am  fond  of  her.  I  shall  always  be  fond  of  her," 
he  said.  "Does  it  make  any  difference  to  you,  my 
dear?" 

Yes,  he  had  mistaken  her  meaning.  He  was  judging 
her  in  the  dim  light  of  an  immemorial  tradition ;  and  he 
had  seen  in  her  anxious  probing  for  truth  merely  a  per- 


THE  SIXTH  SENSE  305 

sonal  jealousy.  Women  were  like  that,  he  would  have 
said,  applying,  in  accordance  with  his  mental  custom, 
the  general  law  to  the  particular  instance.  After  all, 
where  could  they  meet?  They  were  as  far  divided 
in  their  outlook  on  life  as  if  they  had  inhabited  differ 
ent  spiritual  hemispheres.  A  curiosity  seized  her  to 
know  what  was  in  his  mind,  to  sound  the  depths  of  that 
unfathomable  reserve. 

"That  is  over  so  completely  that  I  thought  it  would 
make  no  difference  to  you,"  he  added  almost  reproach 
fully,  as  if  she,  not  he,  were  to  be  blamed  for  dragging  a 
disagreeable  subject  into  the  light. 

Fear  stabbed  Corinna's  heart  like  a  knife.  "But 
she  still  loves  you!"  she  cried  sharply. 

He  flinched  from  the  sharpness  of  her  tone.  "I  am 
sorry,"  he  said  again;  but  the  words  glided,  with  a  per 
functory  grace,  on  the  surface  of  emotion.  Suppose 
that  what  he  said  was  true,  she  told  herself;  sup 
pose  that  it  was  really  "over";  suppose  that  she  also 
recognized  only  the  egoist's  view  of  duty — of  the  para 
mount  duty  to  one's  own  inclinations;  suppose 

"Oh,  am  I  so  different  from  him?"  she  thought,  "why 
cannot  I  also  mistake  the  urging  of  desire  for  the  com 
mand  of  conscience — or  at  least  call  it  that  in  my  mind?  " 
For  a  minute  she  struggled  desperately  with  the  tempta 
tion;  and  in  that  minute  it  seemed  to  her  that  the 
face  of  Alice  Rokeby,  with  its  look  of  wistful  expectancy, 
of  hungry  yearning,  drifted  past  her  in  the  twilight. 

"But  is  it  obliged  to  be  over?"  she  asked  aloud.  "I 
could  never  care  as  she  does.  I  have  always  been 
like  that,  and  I  can't  change.  I  have  always  been  able 
to  feel  just  so  much  and  no  more — to  give  just  so  much 
and  no  more." 


306  ONE  MAN  IN  HIS  TIME 

He  looked  at  her  attentively,  a  little  troubled,  she 
could  see,  but  not  deeply  hurt,  not  hurt  enough  to  break 
down  the  wall  which  protected  the  secret — or  was  it  the 
emptiness? — of  his  nature. 

"Has  the  knowledge  of  my — my  old  friendship  for 
Mrs.  Rokeby  come  between  us?"  he  asked  slowly  and 
earnestly. 

While  he  spoke  it  seemed  to  her  that  all  that  had  been 
obscure  in  her  view  of  him  rolled  away  like  the  mist  in 
the  garden,  leaving  the  structure  of  his  being  bare  and 
stark  to  her  critical  gaze.  Nothing  confused  her  now; 
nothing  perplexed  her  in  her  knowledge  of  him.  The  old 
sense  of  incompleteness,  of  inadequacy,  returned; 
but  she  understood  the  cause  of  it  now;  she  saw  with 
perfect  clearness  the  defect  from  which  it  had  arisen. 
He  had  missed  the  best  because,  with  every  virtue  of 
the  mind,  he  lacked  the  single  one  of  the  heart.  Pos 
sessing  every  grace  of  character  except  humanity,  he 
had  failed  in  life  because  this  one  gift  was  absent. 

"All  my  life,"  she  said  brokenly,  "I  have  tried  to 
find  something  that  I  could  believe  in — that  I  could 
keep  faith  with  to  the  end.  But  what  can  one  build 
a  world  on  except  human  relations — except  relations 
between  men  and  women?" 

"You  mean,"  he  responded  gravely,  "that  you  think 
I  have  not  kept  faith  with  Mrs.  Rokeby?" 

"Oh,  can't  you  see?  If  you  would  only  try,  you 
must  surely  see!"  she  pleaded,  with  outstretched  hands. 

He  shook  his  head  not  in  denial,  but  in  bewilderment. 
"I  realized  that  I  had  made  a  mistake,"  he  said  slowly, 
"but  I  believed  that  I  had  put  it  out  of  my  life — that 
we  had  both  put  it  out  of  our  lives.  There  were  so 
many  more  important  things — the  war  and  coming 


THE  SIXTH  SENSE  307 

face  to  face  with  death  in  so  many  forms.  Oh,  I  con 
fess  that  what  is  important  to  you,  appears  to  me  to  be 
merely  on  the  surface  of  life.  I  have  been  trying  to 
fulfil  other  responsibilities — to  live  up  to  the  demands  on 
me — I  had  got  down  to  realities " 

A  laugh  broke  from  her  lips,  which  had  grown  so 
stiff  that  they  hurt  her  when  she  tried  to  smile.  "Reali 
ties!"  she  exclaimed,  "and  yet  you  must  have  seen 
her  face  as  I  saw  it  to-day." 

For  the  third  time,  in  that  expressionless  tone  which 
covered  a  nervous  irritation,  he  repeated  gravely, 
"I  am  sorry." 

"There  is  nothing  more  real,"  she  went  on  presently, 
"there  is  nothing  more  real  than  that  look  in  the  face 
of  a  living  thing." 

For  the  first  time  her  words  seemed  to  reach  him. 
He  was  trying  with  all  his  might,  she  perceived,  he  was 
spiritually  fumbling  over  the  effort  to  feel  and  to  think 
what  she  expected  of  him.  With  his  natural  fairness 
he  was  honestly  struggling  to  see  her  point  of  view. 

"If  it  is  really  like  that,"  he  said,    "What  can  I  do?" 

All  her  life,  it  seemed  to  Corinna,  she  had  been  ad 
justing  the  difficulties  and  smoothing  out  the  destinies 
of  other  persons.  All  her  life  she  had  been  arranging 
some  happiness  that  was  not  hers.  To-night  it  was  the 
happiness  of  Alice  Rokeby,  an  acquaintance  merely, 
a  woman  to  whom  she  was  profoundly  indifferent, 
which  lay  in  her  hands. 

"There  is  something  that  you  can  do,"  she  said 
lightly,  obeying  now  that  instinct  for  things  as  they 
ought  to  be,  for  surface  pleasantness,  which  warred  in 
her  mind  with  her  passion  for  truth.  "You  can  go  to 
see  her  again." 


CHAPTER  XX 

CORINNA  FACES  LIFE 

AT  NINE  o'clock  the  next  morning  Corinna  came 
through  the  sunshine  on  the  flagged  walk  and  got  into 
her  car.  She  was  wearing  her  smartest  dress  of  blue 
serge  and  her  gayest  hat  of  a  deep  old  red.  Never  had 
she  looked  more  radiant;  never  had  she  carried  her  glor 
ious  head  with  a  more  triumphant  air. 

"Stop  first  at  Mrs.  Rokeby's,  William,"  she  said 
to  the  chauffeur,  "and  while  I  am  there  you  may  take 
this  list  to  market." 

As  the  car  rolled  off,  her  eyes  turned  back  lovingly  to 
the  serene  brightness  of  the  garden  into  which  she  had 
infused  her  passion  for  beauty  and  order  and  gracious 
living.  Rain  had  fallen  in  the  night,  and  the  glowing 
borders  beyond  the  house  shone  like  jewels  in  a  casket. 
Beneath  the  silvery  blue  of  the  sky  each  separate  blade 
of  grass  glistened  as  if  an  enchanter's  wand  had  turned 
it  to  crystal.  The  birds  were  busily  searching  for  worms 
on  the  lawn;  as  the  car  passed  a  flash  of  scarlet  darted 
across  the  road;  and  above  a  clear  shining  puddle  clouds 
of  yellow  butterflies  drifted  like  blown  rose-leaves. 

"How  beautiful  everything  is,"  thought  Corinna. 
"Why  isn't  beauty  enough?  Why  does  beauty  without 
love  turn  to  sadness?"  Her  head,  which  had  drooped 
for  a  moment,  was  lifted  gallantly.  "It  ought  to  be 
enough  just  to  be  alive  and  not  hungry  on  a  morning 
like  this." 

308 


CORINNA  FACES  LIFE  309 

The  house  in  which  Mrs.  Rokeby  lived  appeared  to 
Corinna,  as  she  entered  it  presently,  to  have  given  up 
hope  as  utterly  as  its  mistress  had  done.  Though  it 
was  nearly  ten  o'clock,  the  front  pavement  had  not 
been  swept,  the  hall  was  still  dark,  and  a  surprised 
coloured  maid,  in  a  soiled  apron,  answered  the  door 
bell. 

"Poor  thing,"  thought  Corinna.  "I  always  heard 
that  she  was  a  good  housekeeper.  It  is  queer  how  soon 
one's  state  of  mind  passes  into  one's  surroundings.  I 
wonder  if  unhappiness  could  ever  make  me  so  in 
different  to  appearances?  "  To  the  maid,  who  knew  her, 
she  said,  "I  think  Mrs.  Rokeby  will  see  me  if  she  is 
awake.  It  is  only  for  a  minute  or  two." 

Then  she  went  into  the  drawing-room,  where  the 
shades  were  still  down,  and  stood  looking  at  the  furni 
ture  and  the  curtains  which  were  powdered  with  dust. 
On  the  table,  where  the  books  and  photographs  were 
disarranged  and  a  fancy  box  of  chocolates  lay  with  the 
top  off,  there  was  a  crystal  vase  of  flowers;  but  the 
flowers  were  withered,  and  the  water  smelt  as  if  it 
had  not  been  changed  for  a  week.  Over  the  mantel 
piece  the  long  gilt-framed  mirror  reflected,  through  a 
gray  film,  the  darkened  room  with  its  forlorn  dis 
arrangement.  The  whole  place  had  the  vague  de 
pressing  smell  of  closed  rooms,  or  of  dead  flowers,  the 
very  odour  of  unhappiness. 

"Poor  thing ! "  thought  Corinna  again.  " That  a  man 
should  have  the  power  to  make  anybody  suffer  like 
this!"  And  beneath  her  sense  of  fruitless  endeavour 
and  wasted  romance,  there  awoke  and  stirred  in  her  the 
dominant  instinct  of  her  nature,  the  instinct  to  bring 
order  out  of  confusion,  to  make  the  crooked  straight,  to 


310  ONE  MAN  IN  HIS  TIME 

change  discord  into  harmony,  that  irresistible  instinct 
for  things  as  they  ought  to  be.  She  longed  to  fling 
up  the  shades,  to  let  in  the  sunshine,  to  drive  out  the 
dust  and  cobwebs,  to  put  fresh  flowers  in  the  place  of 
the  dead  ones.  She  longed,  as  she  said  to  herself  with 
a  smile,  "to  get  her  hands  on  the  room."  If  she  could 
only  change  all  this  hopelessness  into  happiness!  If 
she  could  only  restore  pleasure  here,  or  at  least  the 
semblance  of  peace!  "It  is  just  as  well  that  all  of  us 
can't  feel  things  this  much,"  she  reflected. 

"Mrs.  Rokeby  ain't  dressed,  but  she  says  would  you 
mind  coming  up?"  The  maid,  having  attired  herself 
in  a  clean  apron  and  a  crooked  cap,  stood  in  the  door 
way.  As  Corinna  followed  her,  she  led  the  way  up 
the  narrow  stairs  into  the  bedroom  where  Alice  was 
waiting. 

"I  thought  you  wouldn't  be  dressed,"  began  Corinna 
cheerfully,  "but  it's  the  only  time  I  have  free,  and  I 
wanted  to  see  you  this  morning." 

"It  is  so  good  of  you,"  responded  Alice,  putting  out 
her  hand.  "Everything  looks  dreadful,  I  know;  but  I 
haven't  been  well,  and  one  of  the  servants  has  gone  to  a 
funeral  in  the  country." 

"It  doesn't  matter,"  Corinna  hesitated  an  instant, 
"only  I  wish  you  would  make  some  one  throw  out  those 
dead  flowers  downstairs." 

"I  haven't  been  in  the  room  for  a  week,"  replied 
Alice,  dropping  back  on  the  couch  as  if  her  strength  had 
failed  her.  "I  don't  seem  to  care  about  the  house  or 
anything  else." 

As  soon  as  her  surprise  at  Corinna' s  visit  had  faded, 
she  sank  again  into  a  listless  attitude.  Her  figure  grew 
relaxed;  the  faint  animation  died  in  her  face;  and  she 


CORINNA  FACES  LIFE  311 

gazed  at  her  visitor  with  a  look  of  passive  tragedy,  which 
made  Corinna,  who  was  never  passive,  feel  that  she 
should  like  to  shake  her.  Her  soft  brown  hair,  as  fine 
as  spun  silk,  was  tucked  under  a  cap  of  old  lace,  and 
beneath  the  drooping  frill  her  melancholy  features 
reminded  Corinna  of  a  Byzantine  saint.  Over  her 
nightgown,  she  had  thrown  on  a  Japanese  kimono  of 
ashen  blue,  embroidered  in  plum  blossoms  which  looked 
wilted.  Everything  about  her,  Corinna  thought,  looked 
wilted,  as  if  each  inanimate  object  that  surrounded  her 
had  been  stricken  by  the  hopelessness  of  her  spirit.  To 
Corinna's  energetic  temperament,  there  was  something 
positively  immoral  in  this  languid  resignation.  "Un- 
happiness  like  this  is  contagious,"  she  thought.  "And 
all  because  one  man  has  ceased  to  love  her!  What 
utter  folly!"  Aloud  she  said  only,  "I  came  to  ask  you 
to  go  with  me  to  the  Harrisons'  dance. " 

"  To-morrow?     Oh,  Corinna,  I  couldn't ! " 

"Do  you  remember  that  blue  dress — the  one  that  is 
the  colour  of  wild  hyacinths?" 

"Yes,  but  I  couldn't  wear  it  again,  and  I  haven't 
anything  else." 

"Well,  I  like  you  in  that,  but  wear  whatever  you 
please  as  long  as  it  is  becoming.  You  must  look 
ethereal,  and  you  must  look  happy.  Men  hate  a  sad 
face  because  it  seems  to  reproach  them,  and,  even  if  they 
murder  you,  they  resent  your  reproaching  them." 

There  was  a  deliberate  purpose  in  her  levity,  for  an 
intuition  to  which  she  trusted  was  warning  her  that 
there  are  times  when  the  only  way  to  treat  refractory 
circumstances  is  to  bully  them  into  submission.  "If 
you  once  let  life  get  the  better  of  you,  you  are  lost," 
she  said  to  herself. 


312  ONE  MAN  IN  HIS  TIME 

"You  can't  understand,"  Alice  was  murmuring  while 
she  wiped  her  eyes.  "You  have  always  had  what  you 
wanted." 

Corinna  laughed.  "I  am  glad  you  see  it  that  way," 
she  rejoined,  "but  you  would  be  nearer  the  truth  if  you 
had  said  I'd  always  wanted  what  I  had." 

"It  seems  to  me  that  you've  had  everything." 

"Very  likely.  The  lot  of  another  person  is  one  of  the 
mountains  to  which  distance  lends  enchantment." 

"You  mean  that  you  haven't  been  happy?" 

"Oh,  yes,  I've  been  happy.  If  I  hadn't  been,  with 
all  I've  had,  I  should  be  ashamed  to  admit  it." 

But  Alice  was  in  a  mood  of  mournful  condolence. 
She  had  pitied  herself  so  overwhelmingly  that  some  of 
the  sentiment  had  splashed  over  on  the  lives  of  others. 
It  was  her  habit  to  sit  still  under  affliction,  and  when 
one  sits  still,  one  has  a  long  time  in  which  to  remember 
and  regret. 

"Your  marriage  must  have  been  a  disappointment  to 
you,"  she  said,  "but  you  were  so  brave,  poor  dear,  that 
nobody  suspected  it  until  you  were  separated." 

"I  am  not  a  poor  dear,"  retorted  Corinna,  "and  there 
were  a  great  many  things  in  life  for  me  besides 
marriage." 

"There  wouldn't  have  been  in  my  place,"  insisted 
Alice,  with  a  submissive  manner  but  a  stubborn  mind. 

Corinna  gazed  at  her  speculatively  for  a  moment; 
and  in  her  speculation  there  was  the  faintest  tinge  of 
contempt,  the  contempt  which,  in  spite  of  her  pity,  she 
felt  for  all  weakness.  "I  shouldn't  have  got  into  your 
place,"  she  responded  presently,  "and  if  I  ever  found 
myself  there  by  mistake,  I'd  make  haste  to  get  out  of 
it." 


CORINNA  FACES  LIFE  313 

"But  suppose  you  had  been  like  me,  Corinna? "  The 
words  were  a  wail  of  despair. 

A  lauglj  rippled  like  music  from  Corinna's  lips.  It 
was  cruel  to  laugh,  she  knew,  but  it  was  all  so  pre 
posterous!  It  was  turning  things  upside  down  with 
vehemence  when  one  tried  to  live  by  feeling  in  a  world 
which  was  manifestly  designed  for  the  service  of  facts. 
"You  ought  to  have  gone  on  the  stage,  Alice,"  she  said. 
"Painted  scenery  is  the  only  background  that  is  ap 
propriate  to  you." 

Alice  sighed.  She  looked  very  pretty  in  her  shallow 
fashion,  or  Corinna  felt  that  she  couldn't  have  borne  it. 
"You  are  awfully  kind,  Corinna,"  she  returned,  "but 
you  have  so  little  sentiment." 

"I  know,  my  dear,  but  I  have  some  common  sense 
which  has  served  me  very  well  in  its  place."  As  Corinna 
spoke  she  got  up  and  roamed  restlessly  about  the  room, 
because  the  sight  of  that  passive  figure,  wrapped  in 
wilted  plum  blossoms,  made  her  feel  as  if  she  wanted  to 
scream.  "You  can't  help  being  a  fool,  Alice,"  she  said 
sternly,  "and  as  long  as  you  are  a  pretty  one,  I  suppose 
men  won't  mind.  But  you  must  continue  to  be  a 
pretty  one,  or  it  is  all  over  with  you." 

The  face  that  Alice  turned  on  her  showed  a  curious 
mixture  of  humility  over  the  criticism  and  satisfaction 
over  the  compliment.  "I  know  I've  lost  my  looks  dread 
fully,"  she  replied,  grasping  the  most  important  point 
first,  "and,  of  course,  I  have  been  a  fool  about  John.  If  I 
hadn't  cared  so  much,  things  might  have  been  different." 

Corinna  stopped  her  impatient  moving  about  and 
looked  down  on  her.  "I  didn't  mean  that  kind  of 
fool,"  she  retorted;  but  just  what  kind  of  fool  she  had 
meant,  she  thought  it  indiscreet  to  explain. 


314  ONE  MAN  IN  HIS  TIME 

Suddenly,  with  a  dash  of  nervous  energy  which 
appeared  to  run  like  a  stimulant  through  her  veins, 
Alice  straightened  herself  and  lifted  her  head.  "It  is 
easy  for  you  to  say  that,"  she  rejoined,  "but  you  have 
never  been  loved  to  desperation  and  then  deserted." 

"No,"  responded  Corinna,  with  the  ripe  judgment 
that  is  the  fruit  of  bitter  experience,  "but,  if  I  were  ever 
loved  to  desperation,  I  should  expect  to  be.  Desper 
ation  does  things  like  that." 

"You  couldn't  bear  it  any  better  than  I  can.  No 
woman  could." 

"Perhaps  not."  Though  Corinna's  voice  was  flip 
pant,  there  was  a  stern  expression  on  her  beautiful  face 
— the  expression  that  Artemis  might  have  worn  when 
she  surveyed  Aphrodite.  "But  I  should  never  have 
been  deserted.  I  should  have  taken  good  care  to  pre 
vent  it." 

"I  took  care  too,"  retorted  Alice,  with  passion,  "but  I 
couldn't  prevent  it." 

"Your  measures  were  wrong.  It  is  always  safer  to 
be  on  the  side  of  the  active  rather  than  the  passive 
verb." 

With  a  careless  movement,  Corinna  picked  up  her 
beaded  bag,  which  she  had  laid  on  the  table,  and  turned 
to  adjust  her  veil  before  the  mirror.  "If  you  will  let 
me  manage  your  life  for  a  little  while,"  she  observed, 
with  an  appreciative  glance  at  the  daring  angle  of  the 
red  hat,  "I  may  be  able  to  do  something  with  it,  for  I 
am  a  practical  person  as  well  as  a  capable  manager. 
Father  calls  me,  you  know,  the  repairer  of  destinies." 

"If  I  thought  it  would  do  any  good,  I'd  go  to  the  ball 
with  you,"  said  Alice  eagerly,  while  a  delicate  colour 
stained  the  wan  pallor  of  her  face. 


CORINNA  FACES  LIFE  315 

"Do  you  really  think,"  asked  Corinna  brightly,  "that 
John,  able  politician  though  he  is,  is  worth  all  that 
trouble?" 

"Oh,  it  isn't  just  John,"  moaned  Alice;  "it  is  every 
thing." 

"Well,  if  I  am  going  to  repair  your  destiny,  I  must  do 
it  in  my  own  practical  way.  For  a  time  at  least  we  will 
let  sentiment  go  and  get  down  to  facts.  As  long  as  you 
haven't  much  sense,  it  is  necessary  for  you  to  make 
yourself  as  pretty  as  possible,  for  only  intelligent  women 
can  afford  to  take  liberties  with  their  appearances. 
The  first  step  must  be  to  buy  a  hat  that  is  full  of  hope 
as  soon  as  you  can.  Oh,  I  don't  mean  anything  jaunty 
or  frivolous;  but  it  must  be  a  hat  that  can  look  the  world 
in  the  face." 

A  keen  interest  awoke  in  Alice's  eyes,  and  she  looked 
immediately  younger.  "If  I  can  find  one,  I'll  buy  it," 
she  answered.  "I'll  get  dressed  in  a  little  while  and  go 
out." 

"And  remember  the  hyacinth-blue  dress.  Have  it 
made  fresh  for  to-morrow."  Turning  in  the  doorway, 
Corinna  continued  with  humorous  vivacity,  "There 
is  only  one  little  thing  we  must  forget,  and  that  is  love. 
The  less  said  about  it  the  better;  but  you  may  take  it 
on  my  authority  that  love  can  always  be  revived  by 
heroic  treatment.  If  John  ever  really  loved  you,  and 
you  follow  my  advice,  he  will  love  you  again." 

With  a  little  song  on  her  lips,  and  her  gallant  head  in 
the  red  hat  raised  to  the  sunlight,  she  went  out  of  the 
house  and  down  the  steps  into  her  car.  "Fools  are 
very  exhausting,"  she  thought,  as  she  bowed  to  a 
passing  acquaintance,  "but  I  think  that  she  will  be 
cured."  Then,  at  the  sight  of  Stephen  leaving  the 


316  ONE  MAN  IN  HIS  TIME 

Culpeper  house,  she  leaned  out  and  waved  to  him  to 
join  her. 

"My  dear  boy,  how  late  you  are!"  she  exclaimed, 
when  the  car  had  stopped  and  he  got  in  beside  her. 

"Yes,  I  am  late."  He  looked  tired  and  thoughtful. 
"I  stopped  to  have  a  talk  with  Mother,  and  she  kept  me 
longer  than  I  realized." 

"Is  anything  wrong?" 

He  set  his  lips  tightly.  "No,  nothing  more  than 
usual." 

Corinna  gazed  up  at  the  blue  sky  and  the  sunlight. 
Why  wouldn't  people  be  happy?  Why  were  they 
obliged  to  cause  so  much  unnecessary  discomfort? 
Why  did  they  persist  in  creating  confusion? 

"Well,  I  hope  you  are  coming  to  the  dance  to-morrow 
night,"  she  said  cheerfully. 

"Yes.  Mother  has  asked  me  to  take  Margaret 
Blair." 

"I  am  glad.  Margaret  is  a  nice  girl.  I  am  going 
to  take  Patty  Vetch." 

He  started,  and  though  she  was  not  looking  at  him, 
she  knew  that  his  face  grew  pale.  "Don't  you  think 
she  will  look  lovely,  just  like  a  mermaid,  in  green  and 
silver?"  she  asked  lightly. 

"I  don't  know,"  he  answered  stiffly.  "I  am  trying 
not  to  think  about  her." 

Corinna  laughed.  "Oh,  my  dear,  just  wait  until  you 
see  her  in  that  sea-green  gown!" 

That  he  was  caught  fast  in  the  web  of  the  tribal  in 
stinct,  Corinna  realized  as  perfectly  as  if  she  had  seen 
the  net  closing  visibly  round  him.  Though  she  was 
unaware  of  the  blow  Patty  had  dealt  him,  she  felt  his 
inner  struggle  through  that  magical  sixth  sense  which 


CORINNA  FACES  LIFE  317 

is  the  gift  of  the  understanding  heart,  of  the  heart  that 
has  outgrown  the  shell  of  the  personal  point  of  view.  If 
he  would  only  for  once  break  free  from  artificial  re 
straints!  If  he  would  only  let  himself  be  swept  into 
something  that  was  larger  than  his  own  limitations! 

"I  am  very  fond  of  Patty,"  she  said.  "The  more  I 
see  of  her,  the  finer  I  think  she  is." 

His  lips  did  not  relax.  "There  is  a  great  deal  of  talk 
at  the  club  about  the  Governor." 

"Oh,  this  strike  of  course!     What  do  they  say?" 

"A  dozen  different  things.  Nobody  knows  exactly 
how  to  take  him." 

"I  wonder  if  we  have  ever  understood  him,"  said 

Corinna,  a  little  sadly.  "I  sometimes  think " 

Then  she  broke  off  hurriedly.  "No,  don't  get  out,  I'll 
take  you  down  to  your  office.  I  sometimes  think," 
she  resumed,  "that  none  of  us  see  him  as  he  really  is 
because  we  see  him  through  a  veil  of  prejudice,  or  if 
you  like  it  better,  of  sentiment " 

Stephen  laughed  without  mirth.  "I  don't  like  it 
better.  I'd  like  to  get  into  a  world — or  at  least  I  feel 
this  morning  that  I'd  like  to  get  into  a  world  where  one 
was  obliged  to  face  nothing  softer  than  a  fact " 

Corinna  looked  at  him  tenderly.  She  had  a  sincere, 
though  not  a  very  deep  affection,  for  Stephen,  and 
she  felt  that  she  should  like  to  help  him,  as  long 
as  helping  him  did  not  necessitate  any  emotional 
effort.  "Has  it  ever  occurred  to  you,"  she  asked 
gently,  "that  the  trouble  with  you,  after  all,  is  simply 
lack  of  courage?"  At  the  start  he  gave,  she  con 
tinued  hastily,  "Oh,  I  don't  mean  physical  courage  of 
course.  I  do  not  doubt  that  you  were  as  brave  as  a 
lion  when  it  came  to  meeting  the  Germans.  But  there 


318  ONE  MAN  IN  HIS  TIME 

are  times  when  life  is  more  terrible  than  the  Germans! 
And  yet  the  only  courage  we  have  ever  glorified  is 
brute  courage — the  courage  of  the  lion.  I  know  that 
you  could  face  machine  guns  and  bayonets  and  all  the 
horrors  of  war;  but  it  seems  to  me  that  you  have  never 
had  really  the  courage  of  living — that  you  have  always 
been  a  little  afraid  of  life." 

For  a  long  while  he  did  not  answer.  His  eyes  were 
on  the  sky ;  and  she  watched  the  expression  of  irritation, 
amazement,  dread,  perplexity,  and  shocked  compre 
hension,  pass  slowly  over  his  features.  "By  Jove,  I've 
got  a  feeling  that  you  may  be  right,"  he  said  at  last. 
"You  probed  the  wound,  and  it  hurt  for  a  minute;  but 
it  may  heal  all  the  quicker  for  that.  You've  put  the 
whole  rotten  business  into  a  nutshell.  I'm  a  coward 
at  bottom,  that's  the  trouble  with  me.  Oh,  like  you, 
of  course,  I'm  not  talking  about  actual  dangers.  They 
are  easy  enough,  for  one  can  see  them  coming.  It's  not 
fear  of  the  Germans.  It's  fear  of  something  that  one 
can't  touch  or  feel — that  doesn't  even  exist — the  fear 
of  one's  imagination.  But  the  truth  is  that  I've 
funked  things  for  the  last  year  or  so.  I've  been  in  a 
chronic  blue  funk  about  living." 

She  smiled  at  him  brightly.  "It  is  like  a  bit  of 
thistledown.  Bring  it  out  into  the  air  and  sunlight, 
and  it  will  blow  away." 

"I  wonder  if  you're  right.  Already  I  feel  better 
because  I've  told  you;  and  yet  I've  gone  in  terror  lest 
my  mother  should  discover  it." 

When  she  spoke  again  she  changed  the  subject  as 
lightly  as  if  they  had  been  discussing  the  weather. 
"You  used  to  be  interested  in  public  matters.  Do 
you  remember  how  you  talked  to  me  in  your  college 


CORINNA  FACES  LIFE  319 

days  about  outstripping  John  in  the  race?  You 
were  full  of  ideas  then,  and  full  of  ambition  too."  She 
was  touching  a  string  that  had  never  failed  her  yet, 
and  she  waited,  with  an  inscrutable  smile,  for  the  re 
sponse. 

"I  know,"  he  answered,  "but  that  was  in  another 
life — that  was  before  the  war." 

"Do  those  ideas  never  come  back  to  you?  Have 
you  lost  your  ambition?" 

"I  can't  tell.  I  sometimes  think  that  it  died  in 
France.  I  got  to  feel  over  there  that  these  political 
issues  were  merely  local  and  temporary.  Often,  the 
greater  part  of  the  time,  I  suppose,  I  feel  like  that  now. 
Then  suddenly  all  my  old  ambition  comes  back  in  a 
spurt,  and  for  a  little  while  I  think  I  am  cured.  While 
that  lasts  I  am  as  eager,  as  full  of  interest,  as  I  used  to 
be.  But  it  dies  down  as  suddenly  as  it  sprang  up,  and 
the  reaction  is  only  indifference  and  lassitude.  I  seem 
to  have  lost  the  power  to  keep  a  single  state  of  mind, 
or  even  an  interest." 

"But  do  you  ever  think  seriously  of  the  part  you 
might  take  in  this  town?" 

The  look  of  immobility  passed  from  his  face;  his 
eyes  grew  warmer,  and  it  seemed  to  her  that  he  became 
more  alive  and  more  human.  "Oh,  I  think  a  great 
deal.  My  ideas  have  changed  too."  He  was  talking 
rapidly  and  without  connection.  "I  am  not  the  same 
man  that  I  was  a  few  years  ago.  I  may  be  wrong,  but 
I  feel  that  I've  got  down  to  a  firmer  basis — a  basis  of 
facts."  Then  he  turned  to  her  impulsively,  "  I  wouldn't 
say  this  to  any  one  else,  Corinna,  because  no  one  else 
would  understand  what  I  mean — but  I've  learned  a  good 
deal  from  Gideon  Vetch." 


320  ONE  MAN  IN  HIS  TIME 


"Ah!"  Her  eyes  were  smiling.  "I  think  I  know 
what  you  mean." 

"Of  course  you  know.  But  imagine  Father!  He 
would  think,  if  I  told  him,  that  it  was  a  symptom  of 
mental  derangement — that  some  German  shell  had 
left  a  permanent  dent  in  my  brain." 

"Perhaps.  Yet  I  am  not  sure  that  you  understand 
your  father.  I  think  he  is  more  like  you  than  you 
fancy;  that  if  you  once  pierced  his  reserve,  you  would 
find  him  a  sentimentalist  at  heart.  There  is  your 
office,"  she  added,  "but  you  must  not  get  out  now. 
We  will  turn  back  for  a  quarter  of  an  hour."  She 
spoke  to  the  chauffeur,  and  then  said  to  Stephen,  with 
a  sensation  of  unutterable  relief,  "a  quarter  of  an  hour 
won't  make  any  difference  at  the  office  to-day." 

"Perhaps  not  when  I've  lost  three  hours  already.  I 
sometimes  think  they  would  never  notice  it  if  I  stayed 
away  all  the  time.  But  what  I  mean  about  Vetch  is 
simply  that  he  has  set  me  thinking.  He  does  that, 
you  know.  Oh,  I  admit  that  he  is  mistaken — or 
downright  wrong — in  a  number  of  ways!  He  is  too 
sensational  for  our  taste — too  flamboyant;  but  one 
can't  get  away  from  him.  He  has  shaken  the  dust 
from  us;  he  has  jolted  us  into  movement.  I  have  a 
feeling  somehow  that  his  personality  is  spread  all  over 
the  place — that  we  are  smeared  with  Gideon  Vetch, 
as  the  darkeys  would  say." 

He  was  already  a  different  Stephen  from  the  one 
who  had  got  into  her  car  an  hour  ago,  and  she  breathed 
a  secret  prayer  of  thanksgiving. 

"I  think  even  John  feels  that  now  and  then,"  she 
said,  and  a  moment  afterward,  "Is  it  possible,  do  you 
suppose,  that  we  shall  find  when  it  is  too  late  that  this 


CORINNA  FACES  LIFE  321 

Gideon  Vetch  is  the  stone  that  the  builders  rejected? 
A  ridiculous  fancy,  and  yet  who  knows,  it  might  turn 
out  to  be  true.  Stranger  things  have  happened  than 
that!" 

"It  may  be.  One  never  can  tell."  Then  he  laughed 
with  tolerant  affection.  "I've  found  out  the  trouble 
with  John." 

"The  trouble  with  John?"     Her  voice  trembled. 

"Yes,  the  trouble  with  John  is  that  he  lacks  blood 
at  the  brain.  He  is  trying  to  make  a  living  organism 
out  of  a  skeleton — to  build  the  world  over  on  a  skull 
and  cross-bones — and  it  can't  be  done.  I  admire  John 
as  much  as  I  ever  did.  He  is  as  logical  as  a  problem 
in  geometry.  But  Vetch  is  nearer  to  the  truth  of 
things.  Vetch  has  the  one  attribute  that  John  needs 
to  make  him  complete." 

She  nodded.     "I  know.     You  mean  feeling?" 

"Human  sympathy — the  sympathy  that  means 
imagination  and  insight.  That  is  the  only  power  that 
Vetch  has,  but,  by  Jove,  it  is  the  greatest  of  all!  It  is 
the  spirit  that  comprehends,  that  reconciles,  and  re 
creates.  Both  Vetch  and  John  have  failed,  I  think; 
Vetch  for  want  of  education,  system,  method,  and  John 
because,  having  all  this  essential  framework,  he  still 
lacked  the  blood  and  fibre  of  humanity.  In  its  essence, 
I  suppose  it  is  a  difference  of  principle,  the  old  familiar 
struggle  between  the  romantic  and  the  realistic  tem 
perament,  which  divides  in  politics  into  the  progres 
sive  and  the  conservative  forces.  There  is  nothing 
in  history,  I  learned  that  at  college,  except  the  war 
between  these  two  irreconcilable  spirits.  Irreconcil 
able,  they  call  them,  and  yet  I  wonder,  I  wonder 
more  and  more,  if  this  is  not  a  misinterpretation  of 


ONE  MAN  IN  HIS  TIME 

history?  It  seems  to  me  that  the  leader  of  the  future, 
even  in  so  small  a  community  as  this  one,  must  be 
big  enough  to  combine  opposite  elements;  that  he 
must  take  the  good  where  he  finds  it;  that  he  must 
vitalize  tradition  and  discipline  progress " 

"You  mean  that  he  must  accept  both  the  past  and 
the  future?"  While  her  heart  craved  the  substance 
of  truth,  she  dispensed  platitudes  with  a  benevolent 
air. 

"How  can  it  be  otherwise?  That,  it  seems  to  me,  is 
the  only  logical  way  out  of  the  muddle.  The  difficulty, 
of  course,  is  to  remain  practical — not  to  let  the  vision 
run  away  with  one.  It  will  require  moderation,  which 
Vetch  has  not,  and  adaptability,  which  John  has  never 
learned." 

"And  never  will  learn,"  rejoined  Corinna.  "He 
is  made  of  the  mettle  that  breaks  but  does  not  bend." 

"Like  my  father;  like  all  those  who  have  petrified 
in  the  shape  of  a  convention.  And  yet  the  new  stuff — 
the  ideas  that  haven't  turned  to  stone — are  full  of 
froth — they  splash  over.  Take  Vetch  and  this  strike, 
for  instance.  I  myself  believe  that  he  wants  to  do  the 
right  thing,  to  protect  the  public  at  any  cost;  but  he 
has  gone  too  far;  he  has  splashed  over  the  dividing 
line  between  principle  and  expediency.  Will  he  be  able 
to  stand  firm  at  the  last?" 

"Father  says  there  is  to  be  a  meeting  Thursday 
night." 

"Yes,  and  he'll  be  obliged  to  come  to  some  decision 
then,  or  at  least  to  drop  a  hint  as  to  the  line  he  intends 
to  pursue.  I  am  afraid  there  will  be  trouble  either  way." 

" The  Governor  shows  the  strain,"  said  Corinna.  "I 
saw  him  yesterday." 


CORINNA  FACES  LIFE  323 

"How  can  he  help  it?  He  has  got  himself  into  a 
tight  place.  Oh,  there  are  times  when  temporizing  is 
more  dangerous  than  action!  It's  hard  to  see  how 
he'll  get  out  of  it  unless  he  cuts  a  way,  and  if  he  does 
that,  he'll  probably  lose  the  strongest  support  he  has 
ever  had." 

Stephen's  face  was  transfigured  now.  It  had  lost 
the  look  of  dryness,  of  apathy;  and  she  watched  the 
glow  of  health  shine  again  in  his  eyes  as  it  used  to  shine 
when  he  was  at  college.  So  it  was  not  emotion  that 
was  to  restore  him!  It  was  the  ancient  masculine 
delusion,  as  invulnerable  as  truth,  that  the  impersonal 
interests  are  the  significant  ones.  Well,  she  was  not 
quarrelling  with  delusions  as  long  as  they  were  bene 
ficent!  And  since  it  was  impossible  for  her  fer 
vent  soul  to  care  greatly  for  general  principles,  or  to 
dwell  long  among  impersonal  forms  of  thought,  she 
found  herself  regarding  this  public  crisis,  less  as  a 
warfare  of  political  theories,  than  as  a  possible  cure 
for  Stephen's  condition.  For  the  rest,  except  for 
their  results,  beneficial  or  otherwise,  to  the  individual 
citizen,  problems  of  government  interested  her  not  at 
all.  The  whole  trouble  with  life  seemed  to  her  to  rise, 
not  from  mistaken  theory,  but  from  the  lack  of  con 
sideration  with  which  human  beings  treated  one  an 
other.  Happiness,  after  all,  depended  so  little  upon 
opinions  and  so  much  upon  manners. 

"Throw  yourself  into  this  work,  Stephen,"  she 
urged.  "It  is  a  splendid  opportunity." 

He  smiled  at  her  in  the  old  boyish  way.  "An 
opportunity  for  what?" 

"For "  It  was  on  the  tip  of  her  tongue  to  say 

"for  health";  but  she  checked  herself,  remembering 


324  ONE  MAN  IN  HIS  TIME 

the  incurable  distaste  men  have  for  calling  things  by 
their  right  names,  and  replied  instead,  "an  oppor 
tunity  for  usefulness." 

His  smile  faded,  and  he  turned  on  her  eyes  that  were 
almost  melancholy,  though  the  fire  of  animation  still 
warmed  them.  "I  am  interested  now.  I  care  a  great 
deal — but  will  it  last?  Haven't  I  felt  this  way  a 
hundred  times  in  the  last  six  months,  only  to  grow 
indifferent  and  even  bored  within  the  next  few  hours?" 

She  looked  at  him  closely.  "Isn't  there  any  feel 
ing — any  interest  that  lasts  with  you?" 

He  hesitated,  while  a  burning  colour,  like  the  flush 
of  fever,  swept  up  to  his  forehead.  "Only  one,  and 
I  am  trying  to  get  over  that,"  he  answered  after  a 
moment. 

"If  it  is  a  genuine  feeling,  are  you  wise  to  get  over 
it?"  she  asked.  "Genuine  feeling  is  so  rare.  I  think 
if  I  could  feel  an  overwhelming  emotion,  I  should  hug 
it  to  my  heart  as  the  most  precious  of  gifts." 

"Even  if  everything  were  against  it?" 

Her  head  went  up  with  a  dauntless  gesture.  "Oh, 
my  dear,  what  is  everything?"  It  was  a  changed 
voice  from  the  one  in  which  she  had  lectured  Alice 
Rokeby  an  hour  ago.  "Feeling  is  everything." 

"It  is  real,"  he  replied,  looking  away  from  her  eyes. 
"I  am  sure  of  that  because  I  have  struggled  against  it. 
I  can't  explain  what  it  is;  I  don't  know  what  it  was  that 
made  me  care  in  the  beginning.  All  I  know  about  it 
is  that  it  seems  to  give  me  back  myself.  It  is  only 
when  I  let  myself  go  in  the  thought  of  it  that  I  become 
really  free.  Can  you  understand  what  I  mean?" 

"I  can,"  assented  Corinna  softly;  and  though  she 
smiled  there  was  a  mist  over  her  eyes  which  made  the 


CORINNA  FACES  LIFE  325 

world  appear  iridescent.  "Oh,  my  dear,  it  is  the  only 
way.  Throw  away  everything  else — every  cause, 
every  conviction,  every  interest — but  keep  that  one 
open  door  into  reality." 

The  car  stopped  before  his  office,  and  she  held  out 
her  hand.  "I  shall  see  you  to-morrow  night?" 

He  glanced  back  merrily  from  the  pavement.  "Do 
you  think  I  shall  let  you  escape  me?"  Then  he  turned 
away  and  went,  with  a  firm  and  energetic  step,  into  the 
building,  while  Corinna  took  out  her  shopping  list 
and  studied  it  thoughtfully. 

"Back  to  the  shop,"  she  said  at  last.  "I  have  had 
enough  for  one  morning."  As  the  car  started  up  the 
street,  a  smile  stirred  her  lips,  "I  shall  have  three 
unhappy  lovers  on  my  hands  for  the  dance  to-morrow." 
Then  she  laughed  softly,  with  a  very  real  sense  of 
humour,  "If  I  am  going  to  sacrifice  myself,  I  may 
as  well  do  it  in  the  grand  manner,"  she  thought,  for 
Corinna  had  a  royal  soul. 


CHAPTER  XXI 
DANCE  Music 

AT  BREAKFAST  the  next  morning,  Mrs.  Culpeper 
observed,  with  maternal  solicitude,  that  Stephen  was 
looking  more  cheerful.  While  she  poured  his  coffee, 
with  one  eye  on  the  fine  old  coffee  pot  and  one  on  the 
animated  face  of  her  son,  she  reflected  that  he  appeared 
to  have  come  at  last  to  his  senses.  "If  he  would  only 
stop  all  this  folly  and  settle  down,"  she  thought. 
"Surely  it  is  quite  time  now  for  him  to  become  normal 
again."  As  she  looked  at  him  her  expression  softened, 
in  spite  of  her  general  attitude  of  disapprobation,  and 
the  sharp  brightness  of  her  eyes  gave  place  to  humid 
tenderness.  Of  all  her  children  he  had  long  been  her 
favourite,  for  the  reason,  perhaps,  that  he  was  the 
only  one  who  had  ever  caused  her  any  anxiety;  and 
though  she  would  have  gone  to  the  stake  cheerfully 
for  all  and  each  of  them,  there  would  have  been  a 
keener  edge  to  the  martyrdom  she  suffered  in  Stephen's 
behalf. 

"Be  sure  and  make  a  good  breakfast,  Mr.  Culpeper," 
she  urged,  glancing  down  the  table  to  where  her  husband 
was  dividing  his  attention  between  the  morning  paper 
and  his  oatmeal.  "My  poor  father  used  to  say  that 
if  he  didn't  make  a  good  breakfast  he  felt  it  all  day 
long." 

"He  was  right,  my  dear.  I  have  no  doubt  that  he 
was  right,"  replied  Mr.  Culpeper,  in  the  tone  of  solemn 

326 


DANCE  MUSIC  327 

sentiment  which  he  reserved  for  deceased  parents. 
Though  he  was  dyspeptic  by  constitution,  and  inclined 
to  gout  and  other  bodily  infirmities,  he  applied  himself 
philosophically  to  a  heavy  breakfast  such  as  his  wife's 
father  had  enjoyed. 

"Stephen  is  looking  so  well  this  morning,"  remarked 
Mrs.  Culpeper  in  a  sprightly  voice.  "He  has  quite  a 
colour." 

Mr.  Culpeper  rolled  his  large  brown  eyes,  as  hand 
some  and  as  opaque  as  chestnuts,  in  the  direction  of  his 
son.  Though  he  would  never  have  observed  the  im 
provement  unless  his  wife  had  called  his  attention  to 
it,  his  kind  heart  was  honestly  relieved  to  discover 
that  Stephen  looked  better.  He  had  worried  a  good 
deal  in  his  sluggish  way  over  what  he  thought  of  as 
"the  effect  of  the  war"  on  his  son.  With  the  strong 
paternal  instinct  which  beheld  every  child  as  a  branch 
on  a  genealogical  tree,  he  had  been  as  much  disturbed  as 
his  wife  by  the  gossip  which  had  reached  him  about 
the  daughter  of  Gideon  Vetch, 

"Feeling  all  right,  my  boy?"  he  inquired  now,  in  the 
tone  of  indulgent  anxiety  which,  from  the  first  day  of 
his  return,  had  exasperated  Stephen  so  profoundly. 

"Oh,  first  rate,"  responded  the  young  man  lightly. 
"Is  there  anything  you  would  like  me  to  help  you 
about?" 

"No,  there's  nothing  I  can't  attend  to  myself " 

Mr.  Culpeper  had  begun  to  reply,  when  catching  sight 
of  his  wife's  frowning  face,  he  continued  hurriedly: 
"Unless  you  would  care  to  glance  over  that  deed  about 
those  lots  of  your  mother's?" 

Stephen  smiled,  for  he  had  seen  the  warning  change 
in  his  mother's  expression,  and  he  was  thinking  that 


328  ONE  MAN  IN  HIS  TIME 

she  was  still  a  remarkably  pretty  woman.  "With 
pleasure,"  he  returned.  "I  shall  be  busy  all  day, 
but  I'll  look  it  over  to-morrow.  To-night  I  am  going 
to  the  Harrisons'  dance." 

"Oh,  you're  going!"  exclaimed  Mary  Byrd,  who  had 
come  in  late  and  was  just  taking  her  seat.  "I  suppose 
Mother  is  making  you  take  Margaret  Blair?" 

Again  Mrs.  Culpeper  made  a  vague  frowning  move 
ment  of  her  eyebrows  and  gently  shook  her  head;  but 
the  gesture  of  disapproval  to  which  her  husband  had 
responded  obediently  was  entirely  wasted  upon  her 
youngest  daughter.  "You  needn't  shake  your  head 
at  me,  Mother,"  she  remarked  lightly.  "Of  course  I 
know  you  are  making  him  take  her  when  he  would 
rather  a  hundred  times  go  with  Patty  Vetch." 

The  frown  on  Mrs.  Culpeper 's  face  turned  to  a  look 
of  panic.  "Mary  Byrd,  you  are  impossible,"  she  said 
sternly. 

"I  saw  Cousin  Corinna  yesterday,"  observed  Vic 
toria  indiscreetly.  "She  is  going  to  take  Patty  Vetch." 

Mrs.  Culpeper  said  nothing,  but  her  fine  black 
brows  drew  ominously  together.  She  had  worked  so 
busily  over  the  coffee  urn  and  the  sugar  bowl  that  she 
had  not  had  time  to  eat  her  breakfast,  and  the  oatmeal 
in  the  plate  before  her  had  grown  stiff  and  cold  before 
she  tasted  it.  When  Stephen  stooped  to  kiss  her  cheek 
before  going  out,  she  looked  up  at  him  with  a  proud 
and  admiring  glance.  "I  hope  you  remembered  to 
order  flowers  for  Margaret?" 

He  laughed.  It  was  so  characteristic  of  her  to  feel 
that  even  his  love  affairs  must  be  managed!  "Yes, 
I  ordered  gardenias.  Is  that  right?" 

When  she  nodded  amiably,  he  turned  away  and  went 


DANCE  MUSIC  329 

out  into  the  hall,  where  he  found  his  father  waiting. 
"I  wanted  to  see  you  a  minute  without  your  mother," 
explained  Mr.  Culpeper,  in  a  voice  which  sounded  husky 
because  he  tried  to  subdue  it  to  a  whisper.  "It's  just 
as  well,  I  think,  that  your  mother  shouldn't  know  that 
I'm  having  those  houses  you  looked  at  attended  to." 

"Oh,  you  are!"  returned  Stephen,  with  a  curious 
mixture  of  thankfulness  and  humility.  So  the  old 
chap  was  the  best  sport  of  them  all!  In  his  slow 
way  he  had  accomplished  what  Stephen  had  merely 
talked  about.  For  the  first  time  it  occurred  to  the 
young  man  that  his  father  was  not  by  any  means  so 
obvious  or  so  simple  as  he  had  believed  him  to  be.  Had 
Corinna  spoken  the  truth  when  she  called  him  a  senti 
mentalist  at  heart? 

"It's  better  not  to  mention  it  before  your  mother," 
Mr.  Culpeper  was  saying  huskily,  while  Stephen  won 
dered.  "She's  the  kindest  heart  in  the  world.  There 
isn't  a  better  woman  on  earth;  but  she'd  always 
think  the  money  ought  to  go  to  one  of  the  married 
children.  She  couldn't  understand  that  it's  good 
business  to  keep  up  the  property.  Women  have  queer 
ideas  about  business." 

"Well,  you're  a  brick,  Father!"  exclaimed  the  young 
man,  and  he  meant  it  from  his  heart.  His  voice 
trembled,  and  he  put  his  hand  on  his  father's  arm  for  a 
minute  as  he  used  to  do  when  he  was  a  child.  Words 
wouldn't  come  to  him;  but  he  was  deeply  touched,  and 
it  seemed  to  him  that  the  barrier  which  had  divided  him 
from  his  family  had  suddenly  fallen.  Never  since  his 
return  from  France  had  he  felt  so  near  to  his  father  as 
he  felt  at  that  moment. 

"Well,  well,  I  thought  you'd  like  to  know,"  rejoined 


330  ONE  MAN  IN  HIS  TIME 

Mr.  Culpeper,  and  his  voice  also  shook  a  little.  "I 
must  be  getting  down  town  now.  May  I  take  you  in 
my  car?" 

"No,  I  rather  like  the  walk,  sir.  It  does  me  good." 
Then,  without  a  word  more,  but  with  a  smile  of  sym 
pathy  and  understanding,  they  parted,  and  Stephen 
went  out  of  the  house  and  descended  the  steps  to  the 
street. 

It  was  true,  as  his  mother  had  observed,  that  he  was 
happier  to-day  than  he  had  been  for  weeks;  but  this 
happiness  was  founded  upon  what  Mrs.  Culpeper 
would  have  regarded  as  the  most  reprehensible  of 
deceptions.  He  was  happier  simply  because,  in  spite 
of  everything  he  had  done  to  prevent  it,  Fate  had 
decreed  that  he  was  soon  to  see  Patty  again.  The 
longing  of  the  past  few  weeks  was  to  be  appeased,  if 
only  for  an  hour,  and  he  was  to  see  her  again!  He 
did  not  look  beyond  the  coming  night.  He  did  not 
attempt  to  analyse  either  his  motive  or  his  emotions. 
The  future  was  still  obscure;  life  was  still  evolving  its 
inscrutable  problem;  but  it  was  enough  for  him,  at  the 
moment,  to  know  that  he  should  see  her  again.  And 
this  certainty,  coming  after  the  hungry  pain  of  the 
last  three  weeks,  brought  a  glow  to  his  eyes  and  that 
haunting  smile,  like  the  smile  of  memory,  to  his  lips. 

The  light  that  Corinna  had  kindled  illumined  not 
a  political  career,  but  the  small  vivid  image  of  Patty. 
Wherever  he  looked  he  saw  her  flitting  ahead  of  him, 
a  figure  painted  on  sunlight.  He  had  never  found  her 
so  desirable  as  in  those  few  days  since  he  had  irrevocably 
given  her  up.  His  self-denial,  his  vain  endeavours  to 
avoid  her  and  forget  her,  seemed  merely  to  have  poured 
themselves  into  the  deep  rebellious  longing  of  his  heart. 


DANCE  MUSIC  331 

He  lived  always  now  in  that  hidden  country  of  the  mind, 
where  the  winds  blew  free  and  strong  and  the  sun  never 
set  on  the  endless  roads  and  the  far  horizon. 

And  yet,  so  inexplicable  are  the  laws  of  the  mind, 
this  escape  from  the  tyranny  of  convention,  from 
the  irksome  round  of  practical  details,  recoiled  per 
versely  into  an  increased  joy  of  living.  Because  he 
could  escape  at  will  from  the  routine,  he  no  longer 
dreaded  to  return  to  it.  The  light  which  irradiated 
the  image  of  Patty  transfigured  the  events  and  cir 
cumstances  amid  which  he  moved.  It  shed  its  glory 
over  external  incidents  as  well  as  into  the  loneliest 
vacancy,  the  deserted  places,  of  his  being.  Every 
thing  around  and  within  him,  the  very  youth  in  his 
soul,  became  more  intense  hi  the  hours  when  he  allowed 
this  emotion  to  assume  control  of  his  thoughts.  Just 
to  be  alive,  that  was  enough!  Just  to  be  free  again 
from  the  sensation  of  stifling  in  trivial  things,  of 
suffocating  in  the  monotony  which  rushed  over  one 
like  a  torrent  of  ashes.  Just  to  escape  with  Patty 
into  that  wild  kingdom  of  the  mind  where  the  sun 
never  set! 

"When  he  returned  home  that  evening,  his  mother 
met  him  as  he  entered  the  hall,  and  followed  him  up 
stairs. 

"It  is  a  beautiful  evening  for  the  dance,  dear.  They 
are  having  the  garden  illuminated." 

Though  he  smiled  back  at  her,  his  smile  had  that 
dreamy  remoteness,  that  look  of  meaning  more  than 
it  revealed,  which  was  bewildering  to  an  acute  and 
practical  intelligence.  From  long  and  intimate  associa 
tion  with  her  husband,  Mrs.  Culpeper  was  accustomed 
to  dealing  with  ponderous  barriers  to  knowledge;  but 


332  ONE  MAN  IN  HIS  TIME 

this  plastic  and  variable  substance  of  Stephen's  resist 
ance,  gave  her  an  uncomfortable  feeling  of  helpless 
ness.  Even  when  her  son  acquiesced,  as  he  did  usually 
in  her  demands,  she  suspected  that  his  acquiescence 
was  merely  on  the  surface,  that  in  the  depths  of  his 
mind  he  was,  as  she  said  to  herself  resentfully,  "holding 
something  back." 

"Margaret  is  looking  so  sweet,"  she  began  in  her 
smoothest  tone.  "Of  course  she  isn't  the  beauty  that 
Mary  Byrd  is,  but,  in  her  quiet  way,  she  is  very  hand 
some." 

"No,  she  isn't  the  beauty  that  Mary  Byrd  is,"  con 
ceded  Stephen,  so  pleasantly  that  she  realized  he  was 
repeating  parrot-like  the  phrase  she  had  uttered.  His 
thoughts  were  somewhere  else,  she  observed  bitterly; 
it  was  perfectly  evident  that  he  was  not  paying  the 
slightest  attention  to  anything  that  she  said. 

"You  must  use  your  father's  car,"  she  remarked,  as 
amiably  as  before.  "It  is  better  to  have  a  chauffeur, 
and  Mary  Byrd  is  going  with  Willy  Tarleton." 

"And  the  other  girls?"  he  asked,  for  her  words 
appeared  at  last  to  have  penetrated  the  haze  that  en 
veloped  his  mind. 

"Harriet  is  spending  the  night  with  Lily  Whittle, 
and  she  will  go  from  there.  Of  course  Victoria  has 
given  up  dancing  since  she  came  home  from  France, 
and  poor  Janet  stopped  going  to  parties  the  year  she 
came  out."  |  \ 

This  pitiless  maternal  classification  of  Janet  aroused 
his  amusement.  "Well,  I'd  be  glad  to  take  Janet  any 
where,  even  if  her  nose  is  a  little  longer  than  Mary 
Byrd's,"  he  retorted.  "  She's  the  jolliest  of  the  lot,  and 
she  seems  to  me  very  well  contented  as  she  is." 


DANCE  MUSIC  333 

"Oh,  she  is,"  assented  his  mother  eagerly.  "I  al 
ways  tell  her  that  her  disposition  is  worth  a  fortune; 
and  she  has  a  very  good  figure  too.  But,  of  course,  a 
pretty  face  is  the  most  important  thing  before  mar 
riage  and  the  least  important  thing  afterward,"  she 
added  shrewdly,  as  she  left  him  at  his  door. 

In  a  dream  he  dressed  himself  and  went  down  to 
the  dining-room;  in  a  dream  he  sat  through  the  slow 
ceremonious  supper;  in  a  dream  he  got  into  his  father's 
car;  and  in  a  dream  he  stopped  for  Margaret  and  drove 
on  again  with  her  fragrant  presence  beside  him.  When 
he  entered  the  glaring,  profusely  decorated  house  of 
the  Harrisons,  he  felt  that  he  was  still  only  half  awake 
to  the  actuality. 

The  May  night  was  as  warm  as  summer,  and  swing 
ing  garlands  of  ferns  and  peonies  concealed  electric 
fans  which  were  suspended  from  the  ceiling.  In  the 
midst  of  the  strong  wind  of  the  whirring  fans,  the 
dancers  in  the  two  long  drawing-rooms  appeared  to  be 
blown  violently  in  circles  and  eddies,  like  coloured 
leaves  in  a  high  wind.  For  a  few  minutes  after  Stephen 
had  entered,  the  rooms  seemed  to  him  merely  a  bril 
liant  haze,  where  the  revolving  figures  appeared  and 
vanished  like  the  colours  of  a  kaleidoscope.  Near 
the  door  he  became  aware  of  the  resplendent  form  of 
his  hostess,  stationed  appropriately  against  a  back 
ground  of  peonies;  and  after  she  had  greeted  him  with 
absent-minded  cordiality,  he  passed  with  Margaret  in 
the  direction  of  the  thundering  sounds  which  came  from 
the  bank  of  ferns  behind  which  the  musicians  were 
hidden. 

"Shall  we  try  this?"  he  shouted  into  Margaret's  ear. 

She  shook  her  head.     "It's  one  of  those  horrid  new 


334  ONE  MAN  IN  HIS  TIME 

things."  Her  high,  clear  tones  pierced  the  din  like  the 
music  of  a  flute.  "Let's  wait  until  they  play  something 
nice.  I  hate  jazz." 

She  was  looking  very  pretty  in  a  dress  like  a  white 
cloud,  with  garlands  of  tiny  rosebuds  on  the  skirt; 
and  he  thought,  as  he  looked  at  her,  that  if  she  had  only 
been  a  trifle  less  fastidious  and  refined,  she  might  easily 
have  won  the  reputation  of  a  beauty.  Nothing  but  a 
delicate  superiority  to  the  age  in  which  she  had  been 
born,  stood  in  the  way  of  her  success.  Sixty  years 
ago,  in  modest  crinolines,  she  might  have  made  history; 
and  duels  would  probably  have  been  fought  for  her 
favour.  But  other  times,  other  tastes,  he  reflected. 

For  the  rest  of  the  dance,  they  sat  sedately  between 
two  bay-trees  in  green  tubs  that  occupied  a  corner  of 
the  room.  Then  "something  nicer"  started, — a  con 
cession  to  Mrs.  Harrison's  mother,  who  shared  Mar 
garet's  disapproval  of  jazz, — and  Stephen  and  Margaret 
drifted  slowly  out  among  the  revolving  couples.  After 
the  third  dance,  relief  appeared  in  the  person  of  the 
young  clergyman,  who  had  come  to  look  on;  and  leav 
ing  Margaret  with  him  between  the  bay-trees,  Stephen 
started  eagerly  to  search  for  Patty  where  the  dancers 
were  thickest. 

Across  the  room,  he  had  already  caught  a  glimpse  of 
Corinna,  in  a  queenly  gown  of  white  and  silver  brocade. 
She  had  stopped  dancing  now;  and  standing  between 
Alice  Rokeby  and  John  Benham,  she  was  glancing 
brightly  about  her,  while  she  waved  slowly  a  fan  of  white 
ostrich  plumes.  Among  all  these  fresh  young  girls,  she 
could  easily  hold  her  own,  not  because  of  her  beauty, 
but  because  of  that  deeper  fascination  which  she  shed 
like  a  light  or  a  perfume.  She  had  the  something  more 


DANCE  MUSIC  335 

than  beauty  which  these  girls  lacked  and  could  never 
acquire — a  legendary  enchantment,  the  air  of  ro 
mance.  Was  this  the  result,  he  wondered  now,  of  what 
she  had  missed  in  life  rather  than  of  what  she  had  at 
tained?  Was  it  because  she  had  never  lived  completely, 
because  she  had  preferred  the  dream  to  the  event, 
because  she  had  desired  and  refrained,  because  she  had 
missed  both  enchantment  and  disenchantment — was 
it  because  of  the  profound  inadequacy  of  experience, 
that  she  had  been  able  to  keep  undimmed  the  glow  of 
her  loveliness?  It  was  not  that  she  looked  young,  he 
realized  while  he  watched  her,  but  that  she  looked  age 
less  and  immortal,  a  creature  of  the  spirit.  While  he 
gazed  at  her  across  the  violent  whirl  of  colours  in  the 
ballroom,  he  remembered  the  evening  star  shining 
silver  white  in  the  afterglow.  Perhaps,  who  could 
tell,  she  may  have  had  the  best  that  life  had  to 
give? 

Making  his  way,  with  difficulty,  through  the  throng, 
he  followed  Corinna's  protecting  gaze,  until  he  saw  that 
it  rested  on  Alice  Rokeby,  who  was  wearing  a  dress  that 
reminded  him  of  wild  hyacinths.  For  a  moment,  the 
sight  of  this  other  woman's  face,  with  its  soft,  hungry 
eyes,  and  its  expression  of  passive  and  unresisting  sweet 
ness,  gave  him  a  start  of  surprise;  and  he  found  himself 
knocking  awkwardly  against  one  of  the  dancers.  Some 
thing  had  happened  to  her!  Something  had  restored,  if 
only  for  an  evening,  the  peculiar  grace,  the  appealing 
prettiness,  too  trivial  and  indefinite  for  beauty,  which 
he  recalled  vividly  now,  though  for  the  last  year  or 
two  he  had  almost  forgotten  that  she  ever  possessed  it. 
Yes,  something  had  changed  her.  She  looked  to-night 
as  she  used  to  look  before  he  went  away,  with  a  faint 


336  ONE  MAN  IN  HIS  TIME 

flush  over  her  whole  face  and  those  soft  flower-like 
eyes,  lifted  admiringly  to  some  man,  to  any  man  ex 
cept  Herbert  Rokeby.  Then,  as  he  disentangled  him 
self  from  the  whirl,  and  went  toward  Corinna,  she 
came  a  step  or  two  forward,  and  left  John  Benham  and 
Alice  Rokeby  together. 

"Everything  is  going  well,"  she  said;  and  he  noticed, 
for  the  first  time,  that  her  charming  smile  was  tinged 
with  irony,  as  if  the  humour  of  the  show,  not  the 
drama,  were  holding  her  attention.  "I  am  having  a 
beautiful  time." 

He  glanced  over  her  shoulder.  "What  have  you 
done  to  Mrs.  Rokeby?" 

She  shook  her  head,  with  a  laugh  which,  he  surmised 
sympathetically,  was  less  merry  than  it  sounded. 
"That  is  my  secret.  I  have  a  magic  you  know — but 
she  looks  well,  doesn't  she?  I  did  her  hair  myself.  If 
you  could  have  seen  the  way  she  had  it  arranged! 
That  dress  is  very  becoming,  I  think,  it  makes  her  eyes 
look  like  frosted  violets.  Her  appearance  is  a  success 
— but  'More  brain,  O  Lord,  more  brain'!" 

"Do  you  suppose  that  type  will  ever  pass?  "  he  asked. 

She  met  his  inquiring  look  with  eyes  that  were 
golden  in  the  coloured  light.  "Do  you  suppose  that 
women  will  ever  mean  more  to  men  than  pegs  on  which 
to  hang  their  sentiments?  Alice  and  her  kind  will 
always  be  convenient  substitutes  for  a  man's  admira 
tion  of  himself." 

"Which  he  calls  love,  you  think?" 

"Which  he  probably  calls  by  the  most  romantic 
name  that  occurs  to  him.  Have  you  seen  Patty?" 

Before  he  could  reply,  she  turned  away  to  speak  to 
some  one  who  was  approaching  on  her  other  side;  and  a 


DANCE  MUSIC  337 

minute  later,  with  a  joyous  smile  at  Stephen,  she  floated 
off  in  the  dance.  Was  she  really  as  happy  as  she  looked, 
or  was  it  only  a  gallant  pretence,  nothing  more? 

He  had  not  found  Patty  yet;  and  while  he  stood  there, 
with  his  eyes  eagerly  searching  the  revolving  throng 
for  her  face,  he  had  a  singular  visitation,  a  poignant 
sense  that  some  rare  and  beautiful  event  was  eluding 
him  in  its  flight,  a  feeling  that  the  wings  of  the  moment 
had  brushed  him  like  feathers  as  it  sped  by  into  expe 
rience.  Once  or  twice  in  his  life  before  he  had  received 
this  impression;  first  in  his  boyhood  when  he  rose 
one  morning  at  sunrise  to  go  hunting,  and  again  in 
France  after  he  had  come  out  of  the  trenches.  Now  it 
was  so  vivid  that  it  brought  with  it  a  sensation  of  fear, 
as  if  happiness  itself  were  escaping  his  pursuit.  He  felt 
that  his  heart  was  burning  with  impatience,  and  there 
was  a  persistent  hammering  in  his  ears  as  if  he  had 
been  running.  What  finding  her  would  mean,  what  the 
future  would  bring,  he  did  not  know,  he  did  not  even 
seek  to  discover.  All  he  understood  was  that  the  old 
indifference,  the  old  apathy,  the  old  subjective,  tor 
menting  egoism,  had  given  place  to  a  consuming  in 
terest,  an  impassioned  delight.  He  felt  only  that  he 
was  thirsty  for  life,  and  that  he  must  drink  deep  to  be 
satisfied. 

Then,  suddenly,  it  seemed  to  him  that  the  music  grew 
softer  and  slower,  and  the  wind-blown  throng  faded 
from  him  into  a  rosy  haze.  From  the  centre  of  the  room, 
borne  round  and  round  like  a  flower  on  a  stream,  he 
saw  her  face  and  her  romantic  eyes  looking  at  him  with 
a  deep  expectancy  that  brought  a  pang  to  his  heart. 
Her  head  was  thrown  back;  the  short  black  hair  blew 
about  her  like  mist;  and  her  cheeks  and  lips  were  glowing 


338  ONE  MAN  IN  HIS  TIME 

with  geranium  red.  At  that  instant  she  was  not  only 
the  girl  he  loved — she  was  youth  and  spring  and  ad 
venture. 

The  impatience  had  died  now;  the  burning  of  his 
heart  was  cooled;  and  life  had  grown  miraculously 
simple  and  easy.  He  knew  at  last  what  he  wanted. 
His  strength  of  purpose,  his  will  to  live  had  returned 
to  him ;  and  he  felt  that  he  was  cured ;  that  he  was  com 
pletely  himself  for  the  first  time  since  his  return.  The 
dark  depression,  the  shadows  of  the  prison,  were  behind 
him  now.  Straight  ahead  were  the  roads  of  that  hidden 
country,  and  for  the  first  time  he  saw  them  flushed  with 
an  April  bloom. 

Then  the  music  stopped;  the  throng  scattered;  and 
she  came  toward  him  with  a  tall  young  man,  very 
slim  and  nimble,  whose  name  was  Willy  Tarleton.  In 
her  dress  of  green  and  silver,  with  a  wreath  of  leaves  in 
her  hair,  she  reminded  him  again  of  a  flower,  but  of  a 
flower  of  foam.  As  he  held  out  his  hand  the  dance  be 
gan  again;  Willy  Tarleton  vanished  into  air;  and  Patty 
stood  looking  at  him  in  silence.  After  the  tumult  of 
his  impatience,  it  seemed  to  him  that  when  they  met, 
they  must  speak  words  of  profound  significance;  but 
all  he  said  was, 

"It  is  so  warm  in  here.  Will  you  come  out  on  the 
porch?" 

She  shook  her  head.  "I  thought  you  were  with  Miss 
Blair?" 

"I  am — I  was — but  I  must  speak  to  you  before  I  go 
back.  Come  on  the  porch  where  it  is  so  much  quieter." 

The  deep  expectancy  was  still  in  her  eyes.  "I  have 
promised  every  dance.  Mrs.  Page  saw  that  my  card 
was  filled  in  the  beginning.  Why  don't  you  ask  some 


DANCE  MUSIC  339 

of  the  girls  who  haven't  any  partners?  It  is  so  dread 
ful  for  them.  If  men  only  knew!" 

"I  don't  know,  and  I  don't  care.  I  want  you.  If  you 
will  come  on  the  porch  for  just  three  minutes " 

"Yes,  it  is  quieter,"  she  assented,  and  passed,  with  a 
dancing  step,  through  the  French  window  out  on  the 
long  porch  which  was  hung  with  Chinese  lanterns. 
Beyond  was  the  wide  lawn,  suffused  with  a  light  that 
was  the  colour  of  amethyst,  and  beyond  the  lawn  there 
was  a  narrow  view  of  Franklin  Street,  where  the  flash 
ing  lamps  of  motor  cars  went  by,  or  shadowy  figures 
moved  for  a  little  space  in  obscurity.  From  this  other 
world,  now  and  then,  the  sharp  sound  of  a  motor  horn 
punctuated  the  monotonous  rhythm  of  the  music 
within  the  house;  while  under  the  Chinese  lanterns, 
where  the  shadows  of  the  poplar  leaves  trembled  like 
flowers,  the  struggle  in  Stephen's  heart  came  to  an  end 
— the  struggle  between  tradition  and  life,  between  the 
knowledge  of  things  as  they  are  and  the  vision  of  things 
as  they  ought  to  be,  between  the  conservative  and  the 
progressive  principle  in  nature.  After  the  long  insen 
sibility,  spring  was  having  her  way  with  him,  as  she  was 
having  it  with  the  grass  and  the  flowers  and  the  bloom 
on  the  trees.  It  was  one  of  those  moments  of  awaken 
ing,  of  ecstatic  vision,  which  come  only  to  introspective 
and  imaginative  minds — to  minds  that  have  known  dark 
ness  as  well  as  light.  In  that  instant  of  realization,  he 
knew,  beyond  all  doubt,  that  he  stood  not  for  the  past, 
but  for  the  future,  that  he  stood  not  for  philosophy, 
but  for  adventure — for  the  will  to  be  and  to  dare.  He 
would  choose,  once  for  all,  to  take  the  risk  of  happiness; 
to  conquer  inch  by  inch  a  little  more  of  the  romantic 
wilderness  of  wonder  and  delight.  While  he  stood  there, 


340  ONE  MAN  IN  HIS  TIME 

looking  down  into  her  eyes,  these  impressions  came  to 
him  less  in  words  than  in  a  glorious  sense  of  youth, 
of  power,  of  security  of  spirit. 

"I  looked  for  you  so  long,"  he  said,  and  then  breath 
lessly,  as  if  he  feared  lest  she  might  escape  him,  "Oh, 
Patty,  I  love  you!" 

Before  she  could  reply,  before  he  could  repeat  the 
words  that  drummed  in  his  brain,  the  door  into  the 
present  swung  open,  and  the  dream  world,  with  its 
flower-like  shadows  and  its  violet  dusk,  vanished. 

"Patty!"  called  Corinna's  voice.  "Patty,  dear,  I 
am  looking  for  you."  Corinna,  in  her  rustling  white 
and  silver  brocade,  stepped  from  the  French  window 
out  on  the  porch.  "Some  one  has  sent  for  you — 
your  aunt,  I  think  they  said,  who  is  dying " 

The  girl  started  and  drew  back.  Her  face  changed, 
while  the  light  faded  from  her  eyes  until  they  became 
wells  of  darkness.  "I  know,"  she  answered.  "I 
must  go.  I  promised  that  I  would  go." 

"My  car  is  waiting.     I  will  take  you,"  said  Corinna. 

She  turned  to  enter  the  house,  and  Patty,  without 
so  much  as  a  look  at  Stephen's  face,  went  slowly  after 
her. 


CHAPTER  XXII 

THE  NIGHT 

As  THE  car  passed  through  the  deserted  streets, 
Corinna  placed  her  hand  on  Patty's  with  a  reassuring 
pressure.  Without  appearing  to  do  so,  she  was  study 
ing  the  girl's  soft  profile,  now  flashing  out  in  a  sudden 
sharp  light,  now  melting  back  again  into  the  vagueness 
of  the  shadows.  What  was  there  about  this  girl, 
Corinna  asked  herself,  which  appealed  so  strongly  to 
the  protective  impulse  in  her  heart?  Was  it  because 
this  undisciplined  child,  with  that  curious  sporting  in 
stinct  which  supplied  the  place  of  Victorian  morality, 
represented  for  her,  as  well  as  for  Stephen,  some  inartic 
ulate  longing  for  the  unknown,  for  the  adventurous? 
Did  Patty's  charm  for  them  both  lie  in  her  unlikeness 
to  everything  they  had  known  in  the  past?  In  Corinna, 
as  in  Stephen,  two  opposing  spirits  had  battled  un 
ceasingly,  the  realistic  spirit  which  accepted  life  as  it 
was,  and  the  romantic  spirit  which  struggled  toward 
some  unattainable  perfection,  which  endeavoured  to 
change  and  decorate  the  actuality.  More  than  Ste 
phen,  perhaps,  she  had  faced  life;  but  she  had  not  ac 
cepted  it  without  rebellion.  She  had  learned  from 
disappointment  to  see  things  as  they  are;  but  deep  in 
her  heart  some  unspent  fire  of  romance,  some  imprisoned 
aesthetic  impulse,  sought  continually  to  gild  and  enrich 
the  experience  of  the  moment.  And  this  girl,  so  young, 
so  ingenuous,  so  gallant  and  so  appealing,  stood  in 

341 


342  ONE  MAN  IN  HIS  TIME 

Corinna' s  mind  for  the  poetic  wildness  of  her  spirit, 
for  all  that  she  had  seen  in  a  vision  and  had  missed  in 
reality. 

When  the  car  reached  the  Square,  it  turned  sharply 
north.  Sometimes  it  passed  through  lighted  spaces 
and  sometimes  through  pools  of  darkness;  and  as  it 
went  on  rapidly,  it  seemed  to  Corinna  that  it  was  the 
one  solid  fact  in  a  night  that  she  imagined.  Patty 
was  very  still;  but  Corinna  felt  the  warm  clasp  of  her 
hand,  and  heard  her  soft  breathing,  which  became  a 
part  of  the  muffled  undercurrent  of  the  sleeping  city. 
In  all  those  closely  packed  houses,  where  the  obscurity 
was  broken  here  and  there  by  a  lighted  window,  other 
human  beings  were  breathing,  sleeping,  dreaming,  like 
Patty  and  herself,  of  some  impractical  and  visionary 
to-morrow.  Of  something  which  had  never  been,  but 
still  might  be!  Of  something  which  they  had  just 
missed,  but  might  find  when  the  sun  rose  again!  Of 
a  miracle  that  might  occur  at  any  moment  and  make 
everything  different!  It  was  after  midnight;  and  to 
Corinna  it  seemed  that  the  darkness  had  released  the 
collective  spirit  of  the  city,  which  would  retreat  again 
into  itself  with  the  breaking  of  dawn.  Once  a  cry 
sounded  far  off  and  was  hushed  almost  immediately; 
once  a  light  flashed  and  went  out  in  the  window  be 
neath  a  roof;  but  as  the  car  sped  on  by  rows  of  darkened 
tenements,  the  mysterious  penumbra  of  the  night  ap 
peared  to  draw  closer  and  closer,  as  if  that  also  were 
a  phantom  of  the  encompassing  obscurity. 

"Is  this  the  aunt  you  told  me  of,  Patty?"  asked 
Corinna  abruptly. 

"Yes,  I  went  to  see  her  once — not  long  ago.  I  prom 
ised  her  that  I'd  come  back  when  she  sent  for  me. 


THE  NIGHT  343 

She  wanted  to  tell  me  something,  but  she  was  so  ill 
that  she  couldn't  remember  what  it  was.  It  was 
about  Father,  she  said." 

"Stephen  will  come  for  us  after  he  has  taken  Margaret 
home.  I  gave  him  the  number." 

Patty  turned  and  gave  her  a  long  look.  They  were 
passing  under  an  electric  light  at  the  time,  and  Corinna 
thought,  as  she  looked  into  the  girl's  face,  that  all  the 
wistful  yearning  of  the  night  was  reflected  in  her  eyes. 
What  had  happened,  she  wondered,  to  change  their 
sparkling  brightness  into  this  brooding  expectancy. 

The  car  stopped  before  the  house  to  which  Patty 
had  come  with  Gershom;  and  as  they  got  out,  they  saw 
that  it  was  entirely  dark  except  for  the  dim  flicker  of 
a  jet  of  gas  in  the  hall.  By  the  pavement  a  car 
was  standing,  and  from  somewhere  at  the  back  there 
came  the  sound  of  a  baby  crying  inconsolably  in  the 
darkness.  While  they  entered  the  hall,  and  went  up 
the  broad  old-fashioned  flight  of  stairs,  that  plaintive 
wail  followed  them,  growing  gradually  fainter  as  they 
ascended,  but  never  fading  utterly  into  silence.  When 
they  reached  the  second  storey,  and  turned  toward  the 
back  of  the  house,  a  door  at  the  end  of  the  passage 
opened,  and  an  old  woman,  with  a  hunch  back,  and  a 
piece  of  knitting  in  her  gnarled  hands,  came  slowly  to 
meet  them.  Standing  there  under  the  jet  of  gas,  which 
flickered  with  a  hissing  noise,  she  looked  at  them  with 
glassy  impersonal  eyes  and  a  face  that  was  as  austere 
as  Destiny.  Afterward,  when  Corinna  thought  over  the 
impressions  of  that  tragic  night,  she  felt  that  they  were 
condensed  into  the  symbol  of  the  old  woman  with  the 
crooked  back,  and  the  thin  crying  of  the  baby  which 
floated  up  from  the  darkness  below. 


344  ONE  MAN  IN  HIS  TIME 

"We  came  to  see  Mrs.  Green,"  explained  Corinna. 

The  old  woman  nodded,  and  as  she  turned  to  limp 
down  the  passage,  her  ball  of  gray  yarn  slipped  from  her 
grasp  and  rolled  after  her  until  Corinna  recovered  it. 
In  silence  the  cripple  led  the  way,  and  in  silence  they  fol 
lowed  her,  until  she  opened  the  closed  door  at  the  end  of 
the  hall,  and  they  entered  the  room,  with  the  sickening 
sweetish  smell  and  the  window  which  gave  on  the  black 
hulk  of  the  ailantus  tree.  From  behind  a  screen,  which 
was  covered  with  faded  wall  paper,  the  figure  of  the 
doctor  emerged  while  they  waited,  an  ample  middle- 
aged  man,  with  the  air  of  having  got  into  his  clothes 
in  a  hurry  and  the  face  of  a  pragmatic  philosopher.  He 
motioned  commandingly  for  them  to  approach;  and 
going  to  the  other  side  of  the  screen,  they  found  the 
dying  woman  gazing  at  them  with  eager  eyes. 

"She  is  doing  nicely,"  remarked  the  doctor,  with  the 
cheerful  alacrity  of  one  in  whom  familiarity  has  bred 
contempt  of  death.  "Keep  her  quiet.  One  can  never 
tell  about  these  cases." 

He  made  an  explanatory  gesture  in  the  direction  of 
his  pocket.  "I'll  go  down  on  the  porch  and  smoke  a 
cigar,  and  then  if  she  hasn't  had  a  relapse,  I  think  it 
will  be  safe  for  me  to  go  home.  You  can  telephone 
if  you  need  me.  I  am  only  a  few  blocks  away." 
He  went  out  with  a  brisk,  elastic  step,  while  his 
hand  began  to  feel  for  the  end  of  the  cigar  in  his 
pocket. 

"She's  bad  now,"  said  the  old  woman.  "It's  the 
medicine,  but  she'll  come  to  in  a  minute."  She  brought 
two  wooden  chairs  with  broken  legs  to  the  foot  of  the 
bed.  "You'd  better  sit  down.  It  may  be  a  long 
waiting." 


THE  NIGHT  345 

"I  hope  she'll  know  me,"  returned  Patty.  "She 
must  have  wanted  to  see  me,  or  she  wouldn't  have  sent." 
Her  eyes  left  the  stricken  face  and  clung  to  the  calla 
lily  on  the  window-sill,  as  they  had  done  that  after 
noon  when  she  came  here  with  Gershom.  The  single 
blossom  on  the  lily  had  not  faded;  it  was  still  as  perfect 
as  it  had  been  then — only  two  days  ago! — and  not  one 
of  the  closed  buds  had  begun  to  open  beside  it. 

"Oh,  she  wanted  to  see  you,"  answered  the  old 
woman,  in  a  croaking  voice  which  seemed  to  Corinna  to 
contain  a  sinister  note.  "As  long  as  she  was  able  to 
keep  on  her  feet  she  used  to  go  and  sit  in  the  Square 
just  to  watch  you  come  out " 

"Do  you  mean  that  she  cared  for  me  like  that?" 
asked  the  girl,  in  a  hushed  incredulous  tone.  "Was 
she  really  fond  of  me?" 

The  cripple  turned  her  glassy  eyes  on  the  fresh 
young  face.  "Well,  I  don't  know  that  she  was  fond," 
she  responded  bleakly,  "but  when  you're  as  bad  off 
as  that,  there  ain't  many  things  that  you  can  think  of." 

A  murmur  fell  from  the  lips  of  the  dying  woman, 
while  she  rolled  her  head  slowly  from  side  to  side,  as 
if  she  were  seeking  ease  less  from  physical  pain  than 
from  the  thought  in  her  mind.  Her  thick  black  hair, 
matted  and  damp  where  it  had  been  brushed  back  from 
her  forehead,  spread  like  a  veil  over  the  pillow;  and  this 
sombre  background  lent  a  graven  majesty  to  her  fea 
tures.  At  the  moment  her  head  appeared  as  expression 
less  as  a  mask;  but  in  a  few  minutes,  while  they  waited 
for  returning  consciousness,  a  change  passed  slowly 
over  the  waxen  face,  and  the  full  colourless  lips  began 
to  move  rapidly  and  to  form  broken  and  disconnected 
sentences.  For  a  time  they  could  not  understand; 


346  ONE  MAN  IN  HIS  TIME 

then  the  words  came  in  a  long  sobbing  breath.  "It 
has  been  too  long.  It  has  been  too  long." 

"That  goes  on  all  the  time,"  said  the  old  woman. 
"I've  been  up  with  her  for  three  nights,  and  she  rambles 
almost  every  minute.  But  sick  folks  are  like  that," 
she  concluded  philosophically.  She  had  not  laid  down 
her  knitting  for  an  instant;  and  standing  now  beside 
the  bed,  she  jerked  the  gray  yarn  automatically  through 
her  twisted  fingers.  The  clicking  of  the  long  wooden 
needles  formed  an  accompaniment  to  the  dry,  hard 
sound  of  her  words. 

"Why  doesn't  some  one  hush  that  child?"  asked  Co- 
rinna  impatiently.  Through  the  open  window  a  breeze 
entered,  bringing  the  thin  restless  wail  of  the  baby. 

"The  mother  tries,  but  she  can't  do  anything.  She 
thinks  the  milk  went  wrong  and  gave  it  colic." 

The  woman  on  the  bed  spoke  suddenly  in  a  clear 
voice.  "Why  doesn't  he  come?  "  she  demanded.  Rais 
ing  her  heavy  lids  she  looked  straight  into  Corinna's 
eyes,  with  a  lucid  and  comprehending  expression,  as 
if  she  had  just  awakened  from  sleep. 

Holding  her  knitting  away  from  the  bed  with  one 
hand,  and  bending  over,  until  her  deformed  shape  made 
a  hill  against  the  bedpost,  the  old  woman  screamed  into 
the  ear  on  the  pillow,  as  if  the  hearer  were  either  deaf 
or  at  a  great  distance.  Though  her  manner  was  not 
heartless,  it  was  as  impassive  as  philosophy. 

"He  is  coming,"  she  shrieked. 

"Is  he  bringing  the  child?" 

"She  is  already  here.  Can't  you  see  her  there  at  the 
foot  of  the  bed?" 

The  large  black  eyes,  drained  of  any  human  ex 
pression,  turned  slowly  toward  the  figure  of  Patty. 


THE  NIGHT  347 

"But  she  is  a  little  thing,"  said  the  woman  doubt 
fully.  "She  is  not  three  years  old  yet.  What  has  he 
done  with  her?  He  told  me  that  he  would  take  care  of 
her  as  if  she  belonged  to  him." 

The  old  hunchback,  bending  her  inscrutable  face, 
screamed  again  into  the  ear  on  the  pillow. 

"That  was  near  sixteen  years  ago,  Maggie,"  she  said. 
"Have  you  forgotten?" 

The  woman  closed  her  eyes  wearily.  "Yes,  I  had 
forgotten,"  she  answered.  "Time  goes  so." 

But  it  appeared  to  Corinna,  sitting  there,  with  her 
eyes  on  the  strip  of  sky  which  was  visible  through  the 
window,  that  time  would  never  go  on.  A  pitiless  fact 
was  breaking  into  her  understanding,  shattering  w~all 
after  wall  of  incredulity,  of  conviction  that  such  a  thing 
was  too  terrible  to  be  true.  She  longed  to  get  Patty 
away;  but  when  she  urged  her  in  a  whisper  to  go  down 
stairs,  the  girl  only  shook  her  head,  without  moving  her 
eyes  from  the  haggard  face  on  the  pillow.  The  min 
utes  dragged  by  like  hours  while  they  waited  there,  in 
hushed  suspense,  for  they  scarcely  knew  what.  Outside 
in  the  backyard,  the  flowering  ailantus  tree  shed  a  dis 
agreeable  odour;  downstairs  the  feeble  crying,  which 
had  stopped  for  a  little  while,  was  beginning  again. 
While  she  remained  motionless  at  the  foot  of  the  bed, 
wild  and  rebellious  thoughts  flocked  through  Comma's 
mind.  If  she  had  only  held  back  that  message!  If  she 
had  only  kept  Patty  away  until  it  was  too  late!  She 
thought  of  the  girl  a  few  hours  ago,  flushed  with  happi 
ness,  dancing  under  the  swinging  garlands  of  flowers,  to 
the  sound  of  that  thunderous  music.  Dancing  there, 
with  the  restless  pleasure  of  youth,  while  in  another 
street,  so  far  away  that  it  might  have  been  in  a  distant 


348  ONE  MAN  IN  HIS  TIME 

city,  in  a  different  world  even,  this  woman,  with  the 
face  of  tragedy,  lay  dying  with  that  fretful  wail  in  her 
ears.  A  different  world  it  might  have  been,  and  yet 
what  divided  her  from  this  other  woman  except  the 
blind  decision  of  chance,  the  difference  between  beauty 
and  ugliness,  nothing  more.  In  this  dingy  room,  smell 
ing  of  dust  and  drugs  and  the  heavy  odour  of  the  ailan- 
tus  tree,  she  felt  a  presence  more  profoundly  real,  more 
poignantly  significant,  than  any  material  forms — the 
presence  of  those  elemental  forces  which  connect 
time  with  eternity.  This  little  room,  within  its  partial 
shadow,  like  the  shadow  of  time  itself,  was  touched 
with  the  solemnity  of  a  cathedral.  It  seemed  to  Co- 
rinna,  with  her  imaginative  love  of  life,  that  a  win 
dow  into  experience  had  opened  sharply,  a  wall  had 
crumbled.  For  the  first  time  she  understood  that  the 
innumerable  and  intricate  divisions  of  human  fate  are 
woven  into  a  single  tremendous  design. 

While  they  waited  there  in  silence  the  hours  dragged 
on  like  years.  At  last  the  woman  appeared  to  sleep, 
and  when  she  opened  her  eyes  again,  her  gaze  had  be 
come  clear  and  lucid. 

"Have  you  sent  for  them?"  she  asked. 

"Yes,  I  sent  for  them,"  answered  the  old  woman, 
lowering  her  voice  to  a  natural  pitch.  "The  girl  is 
here." 

"Patty?     Where  is  she? " 

Drawing  her  hand  from  Corinna's  clasp,  Patty  moved 
slowly  to  the  head  of  the  bed,  and  standing  there  beside 
the  deformed  old  woman,  she  looked  down  on  the  up 
turned  face. 

" I  came  as  I  promised.  Can  I  help  you?  "  she  asked; 
and  her  voice  was  so  quiet,  so  repressed,  that  Corinna 


THE  NIGHT  349 

looked  at  her  anxiously.  How  much  had  the  girl  under 
stood?  And,  if  she  understood,  what  difference  would 
it  make  in  her  life — and  in  Stephen's  life? 

"I  couldn't  tell  you  the  other  day  because  of  Julius," 
said  the  woman,  in  a  strangled  tone.  "I  couldn't  say 
things  before  Julius."  Then,  glancing  toward  the  door, 
she  asked  breathlessly,  "Didn't  Gideon  Vetch  come 
with  you?" 

"Father?"  responded  Patty,  wonderingly.  "Do  you 
want  Father  to  come?" 

A  smile  crossed  the  woman's  face,  and  she  made  a 
movement  as  if  she  wanted  to  raise  her  head.  "Do  you 
call  him  Father?"  she  returned  in  a  pleased  voice. 

At  the  question,  Corinna  sprang  up  and  made  an 
impulsive  step  forward.  "Oh,  don't!"  she  cried  out 
pleadingly.  "Don't  tell  her ! " 

"But  he  is  my  father,"  Patty's  tone  was  stern  and 
accusing.  "He  is  my  father." 

The  smile  was  still  on  the  woman's  face;  but  while 
Corinna  watched  it,  she  realized  that  it  was  unlike  any 
smile  she  had  ever  seen  before  in  her  life — a  smile  of 
satisfaction  that  was  at  the  same  time  one  of  relinquish- 
ment. 

"They  thought  I  was  married  to  him,"  she  said 
slowly.  "Julius  thought,  or  pretended  to  think,  that  he 
could  harm  him  by  making  me  swear  that  I  was  married 
to  him.  They  gave  me  drugs.  I  would  have  done  any 
thing  for  drugs — and  I  did  that!  But  the  old  woman 
there  knows  better.  She's  got  a  paper.  I  made  her 
keep  it— about  Patty " 

"Don't!"  cried  Corinna  again  in  a  sharper  tone. 
"Oh,  can't  you  see  that  you  must  not  tell  her!" 

For  the  first  time  the  woman  turned  her  eyes  away 


350  ONE  MAN  IN  HIS  TIME 

from  the  girl.  "It  is  because  of  Gideon  Vetch,"  she 
answered  slowly.  "I  may  get  well  again,  and  then  I'll 
be  sorry." 

"But  he  would  rather  you  wouldn't."  Corinna's  voice 
was  full  of  pain.  "You  know — you  must  know,  if  you 
know  him  at  all,  that  he  would  rather  you  spared 
her " 

"Know  him?"  repeated  the  woman,  and  she  laughed 
with  a  dry,  rattling  sound.  "I  don't  know  him.  I 
never  saw  him  but  once  in  my  life." 

"You  never  saw  him  but  once."  The  words  came 
so  slowly  from  Patty's  lips  that  she  seemed  to  choke 
over  them.  "But  you  said  that  you  knew  my  mother?  " 

Again  the  woman  made  that  dry,  rattling  sound  in  her 
chest.  "Your  mother  never  saw  him  but  once,"  she 
answered  grimly.  "She  never  saw  him  but  once,  and 
that  was  for  a  quarter  of  an  hour  on  the  night  they 
were  taking  her  to  prison.  I  would  never  have  told 
but  for  Julius,"  she  added.  "I  would  never  have  told 
if  they  hadn't  tried  to  make  out  that  I  knew  him,  and 
that  he  was  really  your  father.  It  would  ruin  him, 
they  said,  and  that  was  what  they  wanted.  But  when 
they  bring  it  out,  with  the  paper  they  got  me  to 
sign,  I  want  you  to  know  that  it  is  a  lie — that  I  did  it 
because  I'd  have  died  if  I  hadn't  got  hold  of  the 
drugs " 

"But  he  is  my  father,"  repeated  Patty  quite  steadily 
— so  steadily  that  her  voice  was  without  colour  or  feel 
ing. 

The  only  reply  that  came  was  a  gasping  sound,  which 
grew  louder  and  louder,  with  the  woman's  struggle 
for  breath,  until  it  seemed  to  fill  the  room  and  the 
night  outside  and  even  the  desolate  sky.  As  she  lay 


THE  NIGHT  351 

back,  with  the  arm  of  the  old  cripple  under  her  head 
and  her  streaming  hair,  the  spasm  passed  like  a  stain 
over  her  face,  changing  its  waxen  pallor  to  the  colour  of 
ashes,  while  a  dull  purplish  shadow  encircled  her 
mouth.  For  a  few  minutes,  so  violent  was  the  struggle 
for  air,  it  appeared  to  Corinna  that  nothing  except 
death  could  ever  quiet  that  agonized  gasping;  but  while 
she  waited  for  the  end,  the  sound  became  gradually 
fainter,  and  the  woman  spoke  quite  plainly,  though 
with  an  effort  that  racked  not  only  her  strangled  chest, 
but  her  entire  body.  Each  syllable  came  so  slowly, 
and  now  and  then  so  faintly,  that  there  were  moments 
when  it  seemed  that  the  breath  in  that  tormented  body 
would  not  last  until  the  words  had  been  spoken. 

"You  were  going  on  three  years  old  when  he  first  saw 
you.  They  were  taking  me  away  to  prison — that's 
over  now,  and  it  don't  matter — but  I  hadn't  any 

chance "     The  panting  began  again;  but  by  force 

of  will,  the  woman  controlled  it  after  a  minute,  and 
went  on,  as  if  she  were  measuring  her  breath  inch 
by  inch,  almost  as  if  it  were  a  material  substance 
which  she  was  holding  in  reserve  for  the  end.  "Your 
father  died  the  first  year  I  married  him,  and  things 
went  from  bad  to  worse — there's  no  use  going  over  that, 

no  use They  were  taking  me  to  prison  from  the 

circus,  and  I  had  you  in  my  arms,  when  Gideon  Vetch 

came  by  and  saw  me "     Again  there  was  a  pause 

and  a  desperate  battle  for  air;  and  again,  after  it  was 
over,  she  went  on  in  that  strangled  whisper,  while  her 
eyes,  like  the  eyes  of  a  drowning  animal,  clung  neither 
to  Patty  nor  Corinna,  but  to  the  austere  face  of  the  old 
hunchback.  "' What  am  I  to  do  with  the  child?'  I 
asked,  and  he  stepped  right  out  of  the  circus  crowd,  and 


352  ONE  MAN  IN  HIS  TIME 

answered  'Give  me  the  child.  I  like  children' ''  An 

inarticulate  moan  followed,  and  then  she  repeated 

clearly  and  slowly.  "Just  like  that — nothing  more 

'Give  me  the  child.  I  like  children.'  That  was  the 
first  time  I  ever  saw  him.  He  had  come  to  see  some  of 
the  people  in  the  circus,  and  I've  never  seen  him  since 
then  except  in  the  Square.  The  trial  went  against 
me,  but  that's  all  over.  Oh,  I'm  tired  now.  It  hurts 
me.  I  can't  talk " 

She  broke  into  terrible  coughing;  and  the  old  woman, 
dropping  her  knitting  for  the  first  time  since  they  had 
entered  the  room,  seized  a  towel  from  a  chair  by  the  bed. 
"Talking  was  too  much  for  her,"  she  said.  "I  thought 
she'd  pull  through.  She  was  so  much  better — but 
talking  was  too  much." 

"She  is  so  ill  that  she  doesn't  know  what  she  is  say 
ing,"  murmured  Corinna  in  the  girl's  ear.  "She  is  out 
of  her  mind." 

"No,  she  isn't  out  of  her  mind,"  replied  Patty  quietly. 
"She  isn't  out  of  her  mind."  In  her  ball  gown  of  green 
and  silver,  like  the  colours  of  sunlit  foam,  with  a 
wreath  of  artificial  leaves  in  her  hair,  her  loveliness  was 
unearthly.  "It  is  every  bit  true.  I  know  it,"  she 
reiterated. 

"She's  bleeding  again,"  muttered  the  old  woman. 
"You'd  better  find  the  doctor.  I  ain't  used  to  stopping 
haemorrhages."  Then,  as  Corinna  went  out  of  the 
room,  she  added  querulously  to  Patty:  "She  didn't 
have  no  business  trying  to  talk;  but  she  would  do  it. 
She  said  she'd  do  it  if  it  killed  her — and  I  reckon  she 

don't  mind  much  if  it  does She'd  have  killed 

herself  sooner  than  this  if  I'd  let  her  alone." 

From  the  street  below  there  came  the  sound  of  a 


THE  NIGHT  353 

motor  horn;  then  the  noise  of  a  car  running  against  the 
curbstone;  and  then  the  opening  and  shutting  of  a  door, 
followed  by  rapid  footsteps  on  the  stairs. 

"That's  the  doctor  now,  I  reckon,"  remarked  the  old 
woman;  but  the  words  had  scarcely  left  her  lips  when 
the  door  opened,  and  Corinna  came  back  into  the  room 
with  Gideon  Vetch. 

"Where  is  Patty?"  he  asked  anxiously.  "She 
oughtn't  to  be  here." 

"Yes,  I  ought  to  be  here,"  answered  Patty.  As  she 
turned  toward  Gideon  Vetch,  she  swayed  as  if  she  were 
going  to  fall,  and  he  caught  her  in  his  arms.  "  Go  home, 
daughter,"  he  said  almost  sternly.  "You  oughtn't  to 
be  here.  Mrs.  Page,  can't  you  make  her  go  home?" 

"I  have  tried,"  responded  Corinna;  then  a  moan  from 
the  bed  reached  her,  and  she  turned  toward  the  woman 
who  lay  there.  To  die  like  that  with  nobody  caring, 
with  nobody  even  observing  it!  Exhausted  by  the 
loss  of  blood,  the  woman  had  fallen  back  into  un 
consciousness,  and  the  towel  the  old  cripple  held  to  her 
lips  was  stained  scarlet. 

"The  doctor  had  gone  to  bed.  He  will  come  as  soon 
as  he  gets  dressed,"  said  Corinna.  "He  warned  us 
to  keep  her  quiet." 

"If  he  don't  hurry,  she'll  be  gone  before  he  gets  here," 
replied  the  old  woman,  looking  round  over  her  twisted 
shoulder. 

"Oh,  Father,  Father!"  cried  Patty,  flinging  her  arms 
about  his  neck;  and  then  over  again  like  a  frightened 
child,  "Father,  Father!" 

He  patted  her  head  with  a  large  consoling  hand. 
"There,  there,  daughter,"  he  returned  gently.  "A 
little  thing  like  that  won't  come  between  you  and  me." 


354  ONE  MAN  IN  HIS  TIME 

With  his  arm  still  about  her,  he  drew  her  slowly  to 
the  bedside,  and  stood  looking  down  on  the  dying  woman 
and  the  old  cripple,  who  hovered  over  her  with  the 
stained  towel  in  her  hand. 

"I  don't  even  know  her  name,"  he  said,  and  im 
mediately  afterward,  "She  must  have  had  a  hell  of  a 
life! "  Though  there  was  a  wholesome  pity  in  his  voice, 
it  was  without  the  weakness  of  sentimentality.  He 
had  done  what  he  could,  and  he  was  not  the  kind  to 
worry  over  events  which  he  could  not  change.  For  a 
few  minutes  he  stood  there  in  silence;  then,  because  it 
was  impossible  for  his  energetic  nature  to  remain 
inactive  in  an  emergency,  he  exclaimed  suddenly, 
"The  doctor  ought  to  be  here!"  and  turning  away  from 
the  bed,  went  rapidly  across  the  room  and  through  the 
half  open  door  into  the  hall. 

Outside  the  darkness  was  dissolving  in  a  drab  light 
which  crept  slowly  up  above  the  roofs  of  the  houses;  and 
while  they  waited  this  light  filled  the  yard  and  the  room 
and  the  passage  beyond  the  door  which  Gideon  Vetch  had 
not  closed.  Far  away,  through  the  heavy  boughs  of  the 
ailantus  tree,  day  was  breaking  in  a  glimmer  of  purple. 
A  few  birds  were  twittering  among  the  leaves.  Along 
the  high  brick  wall  a  starved  gray  cat  was  stealing  like 
a  shadow.  Drawing  her  evening  wrap  closer  about  her 
bare  shoulders,  Corinna  realized  that  it  was  already  day 
in  the  street. 

"She's  gone,"  said  the  old  hunchback,  in  a  crooning 
whisper.  Her  twisted  hand  was  on  the  arm  of  the  dead 
woman,  which  stretched  as  pallid  and  motionless  as  an 
arm  of  wax  over  the  figured  quilt.  "  She's  gone,  and  she 
never  knew  that  he  had  come."  With  a  gesture  that 
appeared  as  natural  as  the  dropping  of  a  leaf,  she  pressed 


THE  NIGHT  355 

down  the  eyelids  over  the  expressionless  eyes.  "Well, 
that's  the  way  life  is,  I  reckon/'  she  remarked,  as  an 
epitaph  over  the  obscure  destiny  of  Mrs.  Green. 

"Yes,  that's  the  way  life  is,"  repeated  Corinna  under 
her  breath.  Already  the  old  cripple  had  started  about 
her  inevitable  ministrations:  but  when  Corinna  tried 
to  make  Patty  move  away  from  the  bedside,  the  girl 
shook  her  head  in  a  stubborn  refusal. 

"I  am  trying  to  believe  it,"  she  said.  "I  am  trying 
to  believe  it,  and  I  can't."  Then  she  looked  at  them 
calmly  and  steadily.  "I  want  to  think  it  out  by  my 
self,"  she  added.  "Would  you  mind  leaving  me  alone 
in  here  for  just  a  few  minutes?" 

Though  there  was  no  grief  in  her  voice — how  could 
there  be  any  grief,  Corinna  asked  herself? — there  was  an 
accent  of  profound  surprise  and  incredulity,  as  of  one 
who  has  looked  for  the  first  time  on  death.  Standing 
there  in  her  springlike  dress  beside  the  dead  woman  who 
had  been  her  mother,  Corinna  felt  intuitively  that 
Patty  had  left  her  girlhood  behind  her.  The  child  had 
lived  in  one  night  through  an  inner  crisis,  through  a 
period  of  spiritual  growth,  which  could  not  be  measured 
by  years.  Whatever  she  became  in  the  future,  she 
would  never  be  again  the  Patty  Vetch  that  Corinna  and 
Stephen  had  known. 

Yes,  she  had  a  right  to  be  alone.  Beckoning  to  the 
old  woman  to  follow  her,  Corinna  went  out  softly,  clos 
ing  the  door  after  her. 


CHAPTER  XXIII 
THE  DAWN 

OUTSIDE  in  the  narrow  passage,  smelling  of  dust  and 
yesterday's  cooking,  the  pallid  light  filtered  in  through 
the  closed  window;  and  it  seemed  to  Corinna  that  this 
light  pervaded  her  own  thoughts  until  the  images  in 
her  mind  moved  in  a  procession  of  stark  outlines  against 
a  colourless  horizon.  In  this  unreal  world,  which  she 
knew  was  merely  a  distorted  impression  of  the  external 
world  about  her,  she  saw  the  figure  of  the  dead  woman, 
still  and  straight  as  the  effigy  of  a  saint,  the  twisted 
shape  of  the  old  hunchback,  and  after  these  the  shadow 
of  the  starved  cat  stealing  along  the  top  of  the  high 
brick  wall.  What  was  the  meaning  in  these  things? 
Where  was  the  beauty?  What  inscrutable  purpose, 
what  sardonic  humour,  joined  together  beauty  and 
ugliness,  harmony  and  discord,  her  own  golden  heritage 
with  the  drab  destinies  of  that  dead  woman  and  this 
work-worn  cripple? 

"I  can't  stand  it  any  longer,"  she  thought.  "I  must 
breathe  the  open  air,  or  I  shall  die." 

Then,  just  as  she  was  about  to  hurry  toward  the 
stairs,  she  checked  herself  and  stood  still  because  she 
realized  that  the  old  woman  had  followed  her  and  was 
droning  into  her  ear. 

"Yes,  ma'am,  that's  the  way  life  is,"  the  impersonal 
voice  was  muttering,  "but  it  ain't  the  only  way  that  it 
is,  I  reckon.  I  sees  so  many  sick  and  dying  folks  that 

356 


THE  DAWN  357 

you'd  think  I  was  obliged  to  look  at  things  unnatural- 
like.  But  I  don't,  not  me,  ma'am.  It  ain't  all  that 
way,  with  nothing  but  waiting  and  wanting,  and  then 
disappointment.  Even  Maggie  had  her  good  times 
somewhere  in  the  past.  You  can't  expect  to  be  always 
dressed  in  spangles  and  riding  bareback,  that's  what  I 
used  to  say  to  her.  You've  got  to  take  your  share  of 
bad  times,  same  as  the  rest  of  us.  And  look  at  me 
now.  I've  done  sick  nursing  for  more'n  fifty  years — as 
far  back  as  I  like  to  look — but  it  ain't  all  been  sick 
nursing.  There's  been  a  deal  in  it  besides. 

"  Naw'm,  I've  got  a  lot  to  be  thankful  for  when  I  begin 
to  take  stock."  Her  wrinkled  face  caught  the  first 
gleam  of  sunlight  that  fell  through  the  unwashed 
window  panes.  "I've  done  sick  nursing  ever  since  I 
was  a  child  almost;  but  I've  managed  mighty  well  all 
things  considering,  and  I've  saved  up  enough  to  keep 
me  out  of  the  poor  house  when  I  get  too  old  to  go  on. 
When  I  give  up  I  won't  have  to  depend  on  charity,  and 
the  city  won't  have  to  bury  me  either  when  I'm  dead. 
And  I've  got  a  heap  of  satisfaction  out  of  my  red 
geraniums  too.  I  don't  reckon  you  ever  saw  finer 
blooms — not  even  in  a  greenhouse.  Naw'm,  I  ain't 
been  the  complaining  sort.  I've  got  a  lot  to  be  thank 
ful  for,  and  I  know  it." 

Her  old  eyes  shone;  her  sunken  mouth  was  trembling, 
not  with  self-pity,  Corinna  realized,  with  a  pang  that 
was  strangely  like  terror,  but  with  the  courage  of  living. 
The  pathos  of  it  appeared  intolerable  for  a  moment; 
and  gathering  her  cloak  about  her,  Corinna  felt  that  she 
must  cover  her  eyes  and  fly  before  she  broke  out  into 
hysterical  screaming.  Then  the  terror  passed;  and 
she  saw,  in  a  single  piercing  flash  of  insight,  that  what 


358  ONE  MAN  IN  HIS  TIME 

she  had  mistaken  for  ugliness  was  simply  an  impalpable 
manifestation  of  beauty.  Beauty !  Why  it  was  every 
where!  It  was  with  her  now  in  this  squalid  house, 
in  the  presence  of  this  crippled  old  woman,  unmoved 
by  death,  inured  to  poverty,  screwing,  grinding,  pinch 
ing,  like  flint  to  the  crying  baby,  and  yet  cherish 
ing  the  blooms  of  her  red  geranium,  her  passionate 
horror  of  the  poor  house,  and  her  dream  of  six  feet  of 
free  earth  not  paid  for  by  charity  at  the  end.  Yes,  that 
was  the  way  of  life.  Blind  as  a  mole  to  the  universe, 
and  yet  visited  by  flashes  of  unearthly  light. 

"Thank  you,"  said  Corinna  hurriedly.  "I  must  go 
down.  I  must  get  a  breath  of  air,  but  I  will  come  back 
in  a  little  while."  Then  she  started  at  a  run  down  the 
stairs,  while  the  old  woman  gazed  after  her,  as  if  the 
flying  figure,  in  the  cloak  of  peacock-blue  satin  and 
white  fur,  was  that  of  a  demented  creature.  "Air!" 
she  repeated,  with  scornful  independence.  "Air!",  and 
turning  away  in  disgust,  she  limped  painfully  back  to 
wait  outside  of  the  closed  door.  Here,  when  she  had 
seated  herself  in  a  sagging  chair,  she  lifted  her  bleak  eyes 
to  the  smoke-stained  ceiling,  and  repeated  for  the  third 
time  in  a  tone  of  profound  contempt:  "Air!" 

At  the  foot  of  the  stairs,  Corinna  ran  against  Gideon 
Vetch.  "She  died  soon  after  you  went  out,"  she  said, 
"but  Patty  is  still  there." 

"I'll  go  up  to  her,"  he  answered;  and  then  as  he 
placed  his  foot  on  the  bottom  step,  he  looked  back  at 
her,  and  added,  "I  tried  to  spare  her  this." 

She  assented  almost  mechanically.  Fatigue  had 
swept  over  her  from  head  to  foot  like  some  sinister 
drug  and  she  felt  incapable  of  giving  out  anything, 
even  sympathy,  even  the  appearance  of  compassion. 


THE  DAWN  359 

"Then  it  is  all  true?"  she  asked.  "Patty  is  not  your 
child?" 

A  shadow  crossed  his  face,  but  he  did  not  hesitate 
in  his  reply.  "I  never  had  a  child.  I  was  never 
married." 

"You  took  her  like  that — because  the  mother  was 
going  to  prison?" 

He  nodded.  "She  was  a  child.  What  difference 
did  it  make  whether  she  was  mine  or  not?  She  was 
the  nicest  little  thing  you  ever  saw.  She  is  still." 

"Yes,  she  is  still.  But  you  never  knew  what  became 
of  the  mother?" 

"I  didn't  know  her  real  name.  I  didn't  want  to. 
The  circus  people  called  her  Queenie,  that  was  all  I 
knew.  She'd  stuck  a  knife  into  a  man  in  a  jealous 
rage,  and  he  happened  to  die.  They  said  the  trial 
would  be  obliged  to  go  against  her.  I  was  leaving 
California  that  night,  and  I  brought  the  child  with  me. 

I  have  never  been  back "  He  spread  out  his  broad 

hand  with  a  gesture  that  was  strangely  human.  "You 
would  have  done  it  in  my  place?" 

She  shook  her  head.  "No,  I  should  have  wanted 
to,  but  I  couldn't.  I  am  not  big  enough  for  that." 

He  was  already  ascending  the  stairs,  but  at  her 
words,  he  turned  and  smiled  down  on  her.  "It  was 
nothing  to  make  a  fuss  about,"  he  said.  "Anybody 
would  have  done  it." 

Then  he  mounted  the  stairs  lightly  for  his  great 
height,  taking  two  steps  at  a  time,  while  she  passed 
out  on  the  porch  where  Stephen  was  waiting  for  her. 
As  he  rose  wearily  from  the  wicker  rocking  chair 
beside  the  empty  perambulator,  she  felt  as  if  he  were 
a  stranger.  In  that  one  night  she  seemed  to  have 


360  ONE  MAN  IN  HIS  TIME 

put  the  whole  universe  between  her  and  the  old  order 
that  he  represented. 

"I  kept  my  car  waiting  for  you,"  he  began.  "It 
was  better  to  let  your  man  go  home." 

She  smiled  at  him  in  the  pale  light,  and  he  broke  out 
nervously:  "You  look  as  if  you  would  drop.  What 
have  they  done  to  you?"  Though  she  wore  the  cloak 
of  peacock-blue  over  her  evening  gown,  the  pointed 
train  wound  on  the  floor  behind  her,  and  the  fan  of 
white  ostrich  plumes,  which  she  had  forgotten  to  leave 
in  the  car,  was  still  in  her  hand.  Her  face  was  wan  and 
drawn ;  there  were  violet  circles  under  her  eyes ;  and  she 
looked  as  if  she  had  grown  ten  years  older  since  the  eve 
ning  before.  It  was  the  outward  impression  of  the  night, 
he  knew.  In  this  house  one  passed  back  again  into 
the  power  of  time;  youth  could  not  be  prolonged  here 
for  a  single  night. 

"I  don't  know  what  it  means,"  he  said,  with  a 
mixture  of  exasperation  and  curiosity.  "I  wish  you 
would  tell  me  what  it  means." 

"I  feel,"  she  answered,  in  an  expressionless  tone,  as 
if  the  insensibility  of  her  nerves  had  passed  into  her 
voice,  "that  I  have  faced  life  for  the  first  time." 

"Tell  me  what  it  means,"  he  reiterated  impatiently. 

Dropping  into  the  chair  from  which  he  had  risen,  she 
drew  her  train  aside  while  the  doctor  passed  them 
hurriedly,  with  a  muttered  apology,  and  went  into  the 
house.  Then,  leaning  forward,  with  the  fan  clasped 
in  her  hands,  and  her  eyes  on  the  straight  deserted 
street,  which  ended  abruptly  on  the  brow  of  a  hill, 
she  repeated  word  for  word  all  that  the  dying  woman 
had  said.  The  sun  had  not  yet  risen,  but  a  faint, 
opalescent  glow  suffused  the  sky  in  the  east,  and  flushed 


THE  DAWN  361 

with  a  delicate  colour  the  round  cobblestones  in  the 
street  and  the  herring-bone  pattern  of  the  pavement, 
where  blades  of  grass  sprouted  among  the  bricks. 
Though  she  did  not  look  up  at  Stephen's  face,  she  was 
aware  while  she  talked  of  some  subtle  emanation  of 
thought  outside  of  herself,  as  if  the  struggle  in  his  mind 
had  overflowed  mechanical  processes  and  physical 
boundaries,  and  was  escaping  into  the  empty  street  and 
the  city  beyond.  And  this  silent  struggle,  so  charged 
with  intensity  that  it  produced  the  effect  of  a  cry, 
became  for  her  merely  a  part,  a  single  voice,  in  that 
greater  struggle  for  victory  over  circumstances  which 
went  on  ceaselessly  day  and  night  in  the  surrounding 
houses.  Everywhere  about  her  there  was  the  vague 
groping  toward  some  idea  of  freedom,  toward  inde 
pendence  of  spirit;  everywhere  there  was  this  per 
petual  striving  toward  a  universe  that  was  larger.  The 
dwellers  in  this  crowded  house,  with  their  vision  of 
space  and  sunlight;  the  village  with  its  vision  of  a 
city;  the  city  with  its  vision  of  a  country;  the  country 
with  its  vision  of  a  republic  of  the  world — all  these 
universal  struggles  were  condensed  now  into  the  little 
space  of  a  man's  consciousness.  To  Corinna,  in  whose 
veins  flowed  the  blood  of  Malvern  Hill  and  Cold  Harbor, 
it  seemed  that  the  greater  victory  must  lie  with  those 
who  charged  from  out  the  cover  of  philosophy  into  the 
mystery  of  the  unknown.  If  she  had  been  in  Stephen's 
place,  she  knew  that  she  should  have  taken  the  risk, 
that  she  should  have  flung  herself  into  the  enterprise 
of  life  as  into  a  voyage  of  discovery.  Yet,  at  the 
moment,  appreciating  all  that  it  meant  to  him,  she 
asked  herself  if  she  had  been  wise  to  let  him  see  the 
thought  in  her  mind.  For  an  instant,  after  telling 


362  ONE  MAN  IN  HIS  TIME 

him,  she  hesitated,  and  in  this  instant  Stephen  spoke. 

"So  he  isn't  her  father?" 

"No,  he  isn't  her  father.  He  had  never  seen  her 
mother;  he  did  not  even  know  her  name,  for  he  met 
the  woman  by  accident  when  she  was  arrested  in  the 
circus.  Patty  was  over  two  years  old  then — about 
two  and  a  half,  I  think.  Gideon  Vetch  took  the  child 
because  of  an  impulse — a  very  human  impulse  of  pity — 
but  he  knew  nothing  of  her  parentage.  He  knows 
nothing  now,  not  even  her  real  name.  It  is  much 
worse  than  we  ever  imagined.  Try  to  understand  it. 
Try  to  take  it  in  clearly  before  you  act  rashly.  There 
is  still  time  to  weigh  things — to  stop  and  reflect. 
Nothing  whatever  is  known  of  Patty's  birth,  except 
that  her  father,  so  the  woman  said,  died  in  the  first 
year  of  their  marriage,  before  the  child  was  born,  and 
less  than  two  years  later  the  mother  was  sent  to  prison 
for  killing  another  man " 

She  broke  off  hurriedly,  wiping  her  lips  as  if  the 
mere  recital  of  the  sordid  facts  had  stained  them  with 
blood.  It  all  sounded  so  horrible  as  she  repeated  it — 
so  incredibly  evil! 

"Oh,  my  dear  boy,  try  to  take  it  in  however  much 
it  may  hurt  you,"  she  pleaded,  turning  a  coward  not 
on  her  own  account,  not  even  on  his,  but  for  the  sake 
of  something  deeper  and  more  sacred  which  belonged 
to  them  both  and  to  the  tradition  for  which  they 
stood.  A  passionate  longing  seized  her  now  to  protect 
Stephen  from  the  risk  that  she  had  urged  him  to  take. 

"I  understand.     It  is  terrible  for  her,"  he  answered. 

"I  hate  you  to  see  Patty.  Poor  child,  she  looks 
seared."  Then  a  possible  way  occurred  to  her,  even 
though  she  hated  herself  while  she  suggested  it.  "I 


THE  DAWN  363 

am  not  sure  that  it  is  wise  for  you  to  wait.  There  are 
so  many  things  you  must  think  of.  There  is  first  of 
all  your  family " 

He  laughed  shortly.  "It  is  late  in  the  day  to  re 
member  that." 

"I  know."  A  look  of  compunction  crossed  her 
face.  "Forgive  me." 

"Of  course  I  think  of  them,"  he  said  presently. 
"Poor  Dad.  He  is  the  best  of  us  all,  I  believe." 
Though  there  was  an  expression  of  pain  in  his  eyes,  she 
noticed  that  the  unnatural  lethargy,  the  nervous  ir 
ritation,  had  disappeared.  He  looked  as  if  a  load  had 
dropped  from  his  shoulders. 

As  with  many  women  who  have  reconciled  them 
selves  to  the  weakness  of  a  man,  the  first  sign  of  his 
strength  was  more  than  a  surprise,  it  was  almost  a 
shock  to  her.  She  had  believed  that  her  knowledge 
of  him  was  perfect;  yet  she  saw  now  that  there  had 
been  a  single  flaw  in  her  analysis,  and  that  this  flaw 
was  the  result  of  a  fundamental  misconception  of  his 
character.  For  she  had  forgotten  that,  conservative 
and  apparently  priggish  as  he  was,  he  was  before  all 
things  a  romantic  in  temperament;  and  the  true 
romantic  will  shrink  from  the  ordinary  risk  while 
he  accepts  the  extraordinary  one.  She  had  forgotten 
that  men  of  Stephen's  nature  are  incapable  of  small 
sacrifices,  and  yet  at  the  same  time  capable  of  large 
ones;  that,  though  they  may  not  endure  petty  discom 
forts  with  fortitude,  they  are  able,  in  moments  of  vivid 
experience,  to  perform  acts  of  conspicuous  and  splendid 
nobility.  For  the  old  order  was  not  merely  the  out 
ward  form  of  the  conservative  principle,  it  was  also 
the  fruit  of  heroic  tradition. 


364  ONE  MAN  IN  HIS  TIME 

"You  must  think  it  over,  Stephen,"  she  pleaded. 
"Go  away  now,  and  try  to  realize  all  that  it  will  mean 
to  you." 

"Thinking  doesn't  get  me  anywhere,"  he  replied. 
His  face  was  pale  and  thoughtful;  and  Corinna  knew, 
while  she  watched  him,  that  he  had  found  freedom 
at  last;  that  he  had  come  into  his  manhood.  "I've 
made  my  choice,  and  I'll  stand  by  it  to-day  even  if  I 
regret  it  to-morrow.  You've  got  to  take  chances;  to 
leave  the  safe  road  and  strike  out  into  open  country. 
That's  living.  Otherwise  you  might  as  well  be  dead. 
I  can't  just  cling  like  moss  to  institutions  that  other 
people  have  made;  to  the  things  that  have  always  been. 
I've  got  to  take  chances — and  I'm  enough  of  a  sport 
not  to  whine  if  the  game  goes  against  me " 

The  part  of  Corinna's  nature  that  was  not  cautious, 
but  reckless,  the  part  in  her  whose  source  was  imagina 
tion  and  impulse,  thrilled  in  sympathy  with  his  resolve. 
Though  she  gazed  down  the  straight  deserted  street,  her 
eyes  were  looking  beyond  the  sprouting  weeds  and  the 
cobblestones  to  some  starry  flower  which  bloomed  only 
in  an  invisible  world. 

"I  understand,  dear,"  she  answered  softly.  "I 
can't  tell  whether  or  not  it  is  the  safe  way;  but  I  know 
it  is  the  gallant  way." 

"It  is  the  only  way,"  he  responded  steadily.  "If 
I  am  ever  to  make  anything  of  my  life,  this  is  the 
test.  I  see  that  I've  got  to  meet  it.  I  shall  probably 
have  to  meet  it  every  day  of  my  life — but,  by  Jove, 
I'll  meet  it!  Patty  isn't  just  Patty  to  me.  She  is 
strength  and  courage.  She  is  the  risk  of  the  future. 
I  suppose  she  is  the  pioneer  in  my  blood,  or  my  mind. 
I  can't  help  what  she  came  from,  nor  can  she.  I've  got 


THE  DAWN  365 

to  take  that  as  I  take  everything  else,  with  the  belief 
that  it  is  worth  all  the  cost.  The  thing  I  feel  now  is 
that  she  has  given  me  back  myself.  She  has  given  me 
a  free  outlook  on  life " 

He  stopped  abruptly,  for  there  was  the  sound  of 
footsteps  in  the  house,  and  after  a  minute  or  two, 
Patty  and  Gideon  Vetch  came  out  on  the  porch.  The 
girl  looked,  except  for  the  red  of  her  mouth,  as  if  the 
blood  had  been  drawn  from  her  veins,  and  her  eyes 
were  like  dark  pansies.  All  the  light  had  faded  from 
them,  changing  even  their  colour. 

"Patty,"  said  Stephen;  and  he  made  a  step  toward 
her,  with  his  hands  outstretched  as  if  he  would  gather 
her  to  him.  Then  he  stopped  and  fell  back,  for  the 
girl  was  shrinking  away  from  him  with  a  look  of 
fear. 

"I  can't  talk  now,"  she  answered,  smiling  with  hard 
lips.  "I  am  tired.  I  can't  talk  now."  Running 
ahead  she  went  down  the  steps,  through  the  gate,  and 
into  Vetch's  car  which  was  standing  beside  the  curb 
stone. 

"She's  worn  out,"  explained  Vetch.  "I'll  take  her 
home,  and  you'd  better  try  to  get  some  sleep,  Mrs. 
Page.  You  look  as  tired  as  Patty." 

"Let  me  go  with  you,"  returned  Corinna.  "Your 
car  is  closed,  and  Patty  and  I  are  both  bareheaded." 
For  a  moment  she  turned  back  to  put  her  hand  on 
Stephen's  arm.  "I  must  sleep,"  she  said.  "I  sha'n't 
go  to  the  shop  to-day." 

Vetch  was  waiting  at  the  door  of  the  car,  and  when 
she  stumbled  over  her  train,  she  fell  slightly  against 
him.  "How  exhausted  you  are,"  he  observed  gently, 
"and  what  a  rock  you  are  to  lean  on!" 


366  ONE  MAN  IN  HIS  TIME 

She  looked  at  him  with  a  smile.  "Those  are  the 
very  words  I've  used  about  you." 

He  laughed  and  reddened,  and  she  saw  the  glow  of 
pleasure  kindle  in  his  unclouded  blue  eyes.  "Even 
rocks  crumble  when  we  put  too  much  weight  on  them," 
he  responded,  "but  since  you  have  done  so  much  for 
us,  perhaps  you  may  be  able  to  convince  Patty  that 
nothing  can  make  any  difference  between  her  and  me. 
Won't  you  try  to  see  that,  daughter?" 

"Oh,  Father!"  exclaimed  Patty  with  a  sob,  "it 
makes  all  the  difference  in  the  world!" 

"There  it  is,"  said  Vetch  with  anxious  weariness. 
"That  is  all  I  can  get  out  of  her." 

"She  is  so  tired,"  replied  Corinna.  "Let  her  rest." 
Though  her  gaze  was  on  the  street,  she  saw  still  the 
dusk  beyond  the  ailantus  tree  and  the  old  woman,  with 
the  crooked  back,  pressing  down  the  eyelids  over  those 
staring  eyes. 

They  did  not  speak  again  through  the  short  drive; 
and  when  they  reached  the  house  and  entered  the  hall, 
Patty  turned  for  the  first  time  to  Corinna.  "I  can 

never  tell  you,"  she  began,  "I  can  never  tell  you " 

Then,  with  a  strangled  sob,  she  broke  away  and  ran  to 
the  staircase  beyond  the  library. 

"Let  her  rest,"  said  Corinna,  as  Vetch  came  with 
her  on  the  porch.  "Leave  her  to  herself.  She  needs 
sleep,  but  she  is  very  young — and  for  youth  there  is 
no  despair  that  does  not  pass." 

"You  are  as  tired  as  she  is,"  he  returned. 

She  nodded.  "I  am  going  home  to  sleep,  but  the 
look  of  that  child  worries  me." 

"I  kept  it  from  her  for  sixteen  years,"  he  said  slowly, 
"and  she  found  out  by  an  accident." 


THE  DAWN  367 

"I  never  suspected,  or  I  might  have  prevented  it." 

"No,  I  trusted  too  much  to  chance.  I  have  always 
trusted  to  chance." 

"I  think,"  she  said,  "that  you  have  trusted  most  to 
your  good  instincts." 

He  smiled,  and  she  saw  that  he  was  deeply  touched. 
"Well,  I'm  trusting  to  them  now,"  he  responded. 
"They  have  led  me  between  two  extremes,  and  it 
looks  as  if  they  had  led  me  into  a  nest  of  hornets. 
I've  got  them  all  against  me,  but  it  isn't  over  yet,  by 
Jove!  It  is  a  long  road  that  has  no  turning " 

They  had  descended  the  steps  together,  and  walking 
a  little  way  beyond  the  drive,  they  stood  in  the  bright 
green  grass  looking  up  at  the  clear  gold  of  the  sunrise. 

"There  is  a  meeting  to-night,"  she  said. 

"Of  the  strikers — yes,  I  may  win  them.  I  can 
generally  win  people  if  they  let  me  talk — but  the 
trouble  goes  deeper  than  that.  It  isn't  that  I  can't 
carry  them  with  me  for  an  hour.  It  is  simply  that 
I  can't  make  any  of  them  see  where  we  are  going.  It 
is  a  question  not  of  loyalty,  but  of  understanding. 
They  can't  understand  anything  except  what  they 
want." 

"Whether  you  win  or  not,"  she  answered,  "I  am 
glad  that  at  last  I  am  on  your  side." 

His  face  lighted.  "On  my  side?  Even  if  it  means 
failure?" 

As  she  looked  up  at  him  the  sunrise  was  in  her  face. 
The  sky  was  turning  slowly  to  flame-colour,  and  each 
dark  pointed  leaf  of  the  magnolia  tree  stood  out  il 
luminated  against  a  background  of  fire.  "It  may  be 
failure,  but  it  is  magnificent,"  she  said. 

He  was  smiling  down  on  her  from  his  great  height; 


368  ONE  MAN  IN  HIS  TIME 

and  while  she  stood  there  in  that  clear  golden  air,  she 
felt  again,  as  she  had  felt  twice  before  when  she  was 
with  him,  that  beneath  the  depth  of  her  personal  life, 
in  that  buried  consciousness  which  belonged  to  the  ages 
of  being,  something  more  real  than  any  actual  experi 
ence  she  had  ever  known  was  responding  to  the  look 
in  his  eyes  and  the  sound  of  his  voice.  All  that  'she  had 
missed  in  life — completeness,  perfection — seemed  to 
shine  about  her  for  an  instant  before  it  passed  on  into 
the  sunlight.  A  fancy,  nothing  more!  A  fading  gleam 
of  some  lost  wildness  of  youth!  For  if  she  had  spoken 
the  thought  in  her  mind  while  she  stood  there,  she  would 
have  said,  "  Give  me  what  I  have  never  had.  Make  me 
what  I  have  never  been."  But  she  did  not  speak  it; 
the  serene  friendliness  of  her  look  did  not  alter;  and 
the  impulse  vanished  as  swiftly  as  the  shadow  of  a 
bird  in  flight. 

"I  thank  you,"  he  answered  in  a  low  voice.  "I 
shall  remember  that." 

The  moment  had  passed,  and  she  held  out  her  hand 
with  a  smile.  "I  shall  come  to  stay  with  Patty  while 
you  are  at  the  meeting  to-night,"  she  said;  and  then,  as 
she  turned  away  to  the  car,  he  walked  beside  her  in 
silence. 

A  little  later,  when  she  looked  back  from  the  gate,  she 
saw  him  standing  in  the  bright  grass  with  the  sunrise 
above  his  head. 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

THE  VICTORY  OF  GIDEON  VETCH 

THAT  evening,  when  Corinna  got  out  of  her  car  be 
fore  the  Governor's  house,  Stephen  Culpeper  opened 
the  door,  and  came  down  the  steps. 

"I  waited  for  you,"  he  said;  and  then  as  the  car 
moved  away,  he  took  her  hand  and  turned  back  to  the 
porch. 

"I  couldn't  come  before,"  explained  Corinna.  "I 
had  a  headache  all  day,  and  it  kept  me  in  bed.  Have 
you  seen  Patty?" 

"I  have  seen  her,  but  that  is  all.  I  can  do  nothing 
with  her." 

"But  she  cares  for  you." 

"She  doesn't  deny  it.  That's  not  the  trouble. 
Something  about  Vetch  stands  in  the  way.  I  can't 
make  out  what  she  means." 

"Let  me  talk  to  her,"  responded  Corinna  reassuringly. 
"Is  the  Governor  here?" 

"No,  he  has  gone  to  the  strikers'  meeting.  They 
must  reach  some  decision  to-night  it  appears.  I  have 
talked  with  him,  and  I  believe  he  will  stand  firm  what 
ever  happens.  It  means,  I  think,  that  his  career  is 


over." 


"It  is  too  late  for  him  to  win  over  the  conservative 
forces?" 

"It  was  always  too  late.  In  a  battle  of  extremes  the 
most  dangerous  position  is  in  the  centre." 


370  ONE  MAN  IN  HIS  TIME 

"He  told  me  something  like  that  once.  The  trouble 
with  him  is  that  he  hasn't  a  point  of  view,  but  a  vision. 
He  sees  the  whole,  and  politics  is  only  a  little  part  of 

it." 

"Yes,  he  sees  a  human  fight,  while  they  are  trying 
to  make  a  political  squabble.  He  may  win  them  over 
to-night,  but  this  is  only  the  beginning.  The  real  fight 
is  against  individual  self-interest."  He  laughed  in  an 
undertone.  "I  remember  he  told  me  once  that  the 
only  trouble  with  Christianity  was  the  Christians.  'You 
can't  have  Christianity',  he  said,  'until  Christians  are 
different'.  That's  just  as  true,  of  course,  of  politics. 
The  only  trouble  with  politics  is  the  politicians." 

"Well,  it's  a  muddle,"  she  responded  impatiently. 
"However  you  look  at  it.  Come  back  in  an  hour  or 
two,  and  I  may  be  able  to  help  you."  Her  cheerful 
smile  shone  on  him  for  an  instant;  then  she  entered  the 
house  and  closed  the  door  after  her. 

In  one  of  the  worn  leather  chairs  in  the  library,  Patty 
was  sitting  perfectly  still,  with  her  eyes  fixed  on  the 
orderly  row  of  papers  on  the  Governor's  desk.  She 
wore  a  white  dress  with  a  black  ribbon  at  her  waist, 
and  in  the  dim  light,  with  her  pale  face  and  her  cloudy 
hair,  she  had  a  ghostly  look  as  if  she  would  turn  to  mist 
at  a  touch.  When  Corinna  entered,  she  rose  and  held 
out  her  hands.  "You  are  so  good,"  she  said.  "I 
never  dreamed  that  any  body  could  be  so  good  and  so 
beautiful  too!" 

"My  dear,"  began  Corinna  brightly,  and  while  she 
spoke  she  drew  the  girl  to  the  leather-covered  couch 
by  the  window,  and  sat  down  still  holding  the  cold 
hands  in  her  warm  ones.  "So  you  are  going  to  marry 
Stephen." 


THE  VICTORY  OF  GIDEON  VETCH     371 

"I  can't,"  replied  Patty,  and  she  turned  her  face 
slightly  away  as  if  she  shrank  from  meeting  Corinna's 
eyes.  "I  can't  after  what  I  know.  I  can't  do  it  be 
cause  of  Father." 

"Because  of  your  father?"  repeated  Corinna.  "But 
surely  your  father  wishes  you  to  be  happy?" 

"Oh,  I  know  he  does.  It  isn't  that.  But  this  will 
all  come  out.  That  is  what  Julius  Gershom  meant 
when  he  threatened.  They  are  trying  to  do  him  some 
harm — Father,  I  mean " 

"I  understand  that,  but  still  how  in  the  world " 

Before  she  could  finish  her  sentence  Patty  interrupted 
in  an  hysterical  voice — the  voice  of  youth  that  is  al 
ways  dramatic:  "Nobody  will  ever  mean  as  much  to 
me  as  Father  does,"  she  cried.  "I  know  that  now. 
I've  known  it  ever  since  I  found  out  that  he  began 
it  just  out  of  kindness — that  I  had  no  claim  on  him  of 
any  kind " 

"That  is  natural,  dear,  but  still  I  don't  understand." 

Rising  from  the  couch,  Patty  moved  to  a  chair  in 
front  of  Corinna,  and  sinking  into  it,  began  nervously 
plaiting  and  unplaiting  a  fold  of  her  white  dress.  "I 
can  do  anything  with  Julius  Gershom  if  I  am  nice  to 
him,"  she  murmured.  "If  he  stands  by  Father  most 
of  the  others  will  also." 

With  a  gasp  Corinna  sat  up  very  straight  and  tried 
to  see  Patty's  eyes  in  the  obscurity.  What  sordid 
horror  was  the  child  facing  now?  What  unspeakable 
degradation?  "You  can't  think  of  marrying  Gershom, 
Patty!"  she  exclaimed,  with  a  gesture  of  loathing. 
"You  must  be  out  of  your  mind  even  to  dream  of 
it!" 

"I  can  make  him  do  anything  I  want  if  I  will  prom- 


372  ONE  MAN  IN  HIS  TIME 

ise  to  marry  him,"  she  answered  in  a  steady  voice, 
though  a  shiver  of  aversion  passed  over  her. 

Corinna  drew  her  breath  sharply,  restraining  at  the 
same  time  an  impulse  to  laugh.  Oh,  the  mock  heroics 
of  youth!  Of  youth  with  its  fantastic  heroism  and  its 
dauntless  inexperience!  "If  you  only  knew,"  she 
breathed  indignantly,  "if  you  only  knew  what  marriage 
means!" 

Patty  turned  and  gave  her  a  long  look.  "I  could  do 
more  than  that  for  Father,"  she  answered. 

So  this  was  the  other  side  of  Gideon  Vetch — of  that 
man  of  ignoble  circumstances  and  infinite  magnanimity ! 
How  could  any  one  understand  him?  How,  above  all, 
could  any  one  judge  him?  How  could  one  fathom  his 
power  for  good  or  for  evil?  She  beheld  him  suddenly 
as  a  man  who  was  inspired  by  an  exalted  illusion — the 
illusion  of  human  perfectibility.  In  the  changing  world 
about  her,  the  breaking  up  and  the  renewing,  the 
dissolution  and  readjustment  of  ideals;  in  the  modern 
conflict  between  the  spirit  that  accepts  and  the  spirit 
that  rejects;  in  this  age  of  destiny — was  not  an  uncon 
querable  optimism,  an  invincible  belief  in  life,  the  one 
secure  hope  for  the  future?  It  is  the  human  touch 
that  creates  hope,  she  thought;  and  the  power  of  Gideon 
Vetch  was  revealed  to  her  as  simply  the  human  touch 
magnified  into  a  force. 

She  became  aware  after  a  minute  that  Patty  was  speak 
ing.  "I  can  never  tell  you — I  can  never  tell  any  one 
what  he  used  to  be  to  me  when  I  was  a  little  girl,  and 
he  was  very  poor.  Sometimes — for  a  long  time — I 
couldn't  have  a  nurse,  and  he  would  dress  and  undress 
me,  and  leave  me  with  the  neighbours  when  he  went 
away  to  work.  I  can  see  him  now  heating  milk  for 


THE  VICTORY  OF  GIDEON  VETCH    373 

me  over  an  old  oil  lamp.  Once  when  I  was  ill  he  sat 
up  night  after  night  with  me.  Oh,  I  don't  mean  that  he 
was  perfect,  but  that  he  was  kind — always.  I  know 
the  quarrels  he  had — that  he  has  still  with  the  people 
who  won't  go  his  way.  The  one  thing  he  can't  forgive 
in  people  is  that  they  never  forget  themselves,  that  they 
never  think  of  anything  except  what  they  want.  That 
angers  him,  and  he  flies  out.  I  know  that.  But  there's 
no  use  trying  I  can't  make  anybody,  I  can't  make  even 

you,  know  all  that  he  did  for  me "  The  words 

ended  in  tears;  and  she  sat  there,  lost  in  memory,  while 
the  dim  light  seemed  to  absorb  her  white  dress  and  her 
pale  features  and  the  small  hand  that  lay  on  the  fringe 
of  her  black  sash. 

"My  dear,  my  dear,"  murmured  Corinna  because  she 
could  think  of  no  words  that  sounded  less  ineffectual. 

There  was  a  ring  at  the  door-bell  while  she  spoke 
and  after  a  pause  which  appeared  to  her  inter 
minable,  she  heard  the  shuffling  tread  of  old  Abijah, 
and  then  the  clear  tone  of  Stephen's  voice,  followed 
immediately  by  another  speaker  who  sounded  vaguely 
familiar,  though  she  could  not  recall  now  where  she  had 
listened  to  him  before.  It  was  not  Julius  Gershom,  she 
knew,  though  it  might  be  some  man  that  she  had  heard 
at  a  meeting. 

"Let  me  speak  to  Mrs.  Page  first,"  said  Stephen. 
"Ask  her  if  she  will  come  into  the  drawing-room." 

For  an  instant  Corinna  hung  back,  with  the  chill  of 
dread  at  her  heart;  and  in  that  instant  Patty  flew  past 
her  like  a  startled  spirit,  while  the  ends  of  her  black 
sash  streamed  behind  her.  With  the  penetrating 
insight  of  love  the  girl  had  surmised,  had  seen,  had 
understood,  before  a  word  of  explanation  had  reached 


374  ONE  MAN  IN  HIS  TIME 

her,  before  even  the  door  had  swung  open,  and  she 
had  met  the  blanched  faces  of  the  men  in  the  hall. 
"It  is  Father,"  she  said  quietly.  "They  have  hurt 
him.  Oh,  I  knew  all  the  time  that  they  were  going  to 
hurt  him!" 

Comma,  standing  close  at  her  side  without  touching 
her,  for  some  intuition  told  her  that  the  girl  did  not 
wish  any  support,  was  aware  of  the  faces  of  these  men, 
flickering  slowly,  like  glimmering  ashen  lights,  out  of 
the  shadows  in  the  hall — first  Stephen's  face,  with  its 
shocked  compassionate  eyes;  then  the  face  of  old  Dar- 
row,  rock-hewn,  relentless;  then  the  face  of  her  father, 
which  even  tragedy  could  not  startle  out  of  its  ceremon 
ious  reserve;  and  beyond  these  familiar  faces,  it  seemed 
to  her  that  the  collective  face  of  the  crowd  gazed  back 
at  her  with  an  expression  which  was  one  neither  of 
surprise  nor  terror,  but  of  the  stony  fortitude  of  the 
ages.  Beyond  this  there  was  the  open  door  and  the 
glamour  of  the  spring  night,  and  in  the  night  another 
group  with  its  dark  burden. 

"I  met  them  just  outside,  and  they  told  me,"  said 
Stephen.  "Ger shorn  thinks  it  was  an  accident,  but 
we  shall  never  know  probably.  Two  opposing  sides 
were  fighting  it  out.  A  question  had  come  up — no 
body  can  remember  what  it  was — nothing  important, 
I  think — but  two  men  came  to  blows  and  he  got  in 
between  them — he  stood  in  the  way — and  somebody 
shot  him " 

He  was  talking,  Corinna  realized,  in  an  effort  to  hold 
Patty's  gaze,  to  divert  her  eyes  by  the  force  of  his  look 
from  the  burden  which  the  men  were  bringing  slowly 
up  the  steps  outside  and  into  the  hall. 

"Nobody  meant  to  harm  him,"  said  Gershom  sud- 


THE  VICTORY  OF  GIDEON  VETCH     375 

denly,  speaking  from  the  edge  of  the  group.  "The 
pistol  went  off  by  mistake.  He  got  in  the  way  before 

any  one  saw  him "  But  from  his  look,  Corinna 

knew  that  it  was  not  an  accident,  that  they  had  shot 
him  because  he  came  between  them  and  the  thing  that 
they  wanted. 

The  slow  steps  crossed  the  hall  into  the  library,  and 
above  the  measured  beat  and  pause  of  the  sound, 
Corinna  heard  the  voice  of  Vetch  as  distinctly  as  if  he 
were  standing  there  before  her  in  the  centre  of  the  group. 
"The  loneliest  man  on  earth  is  the  one  who  stands 
between  two  extremes."  Yes,  at  the  end  as  well  as  at 
the  beginning,  he  had  stood  between  two  extremes! 
Then  Patty's  cry  of  anguish  floated  to  her  from  the 
room  across  the  hall  into  which  they  had  taken  him. 
"Father!  Father!"  Only  that  one  word  over  and  over 
again.  "Father!  Father!"  Only  that  one  word  ut 
tered  steadily  and  softly  in  a  tone  of  imploring  helpless 
ness  like  the  wail  of  a  frightened  child.  It  never  ceased, 
this  piteous  sobbing,  until  at  last  the  doctor  went  out, 
and  left  Corinna  alone  with  the  girl  and  Gideon  Vetch. 
Then  Patty  fell  on  her  knees  beside  the  couch  where  he 
lay,  and  a  silence  that  was  almost  suffocating  closed 
over  the  room. 

The  house  had  become  very  still.  While  Corinna 
waited  there  at  Patty's  side,  the  only  noise  came 
from  the  restless  movement  of  the  city,  which  sounded 
far  off  and  vaguely  ominous,  like  the  disturbance 
in  a  nightmare  from  which  one  has  just  awakened. 
She  had  turned  off  the  unshaded  electric  light;  and 
for  a  few  minutes  Patty  knelt  alone  in  a  merciful  dim 
ness,  which  left  her  white  dress  and  the  composed  fea 
tures  of  the  dead  man  the  only  luminous  spots  in  the 


376  ONE  MAN  IN  HIS  TIME 

room.  It  was  as  if  these  two  pallid  spaces  were  living 
things  in  the  midst  of  inanimate  darkness.  For  a 
moment  only  this  impression  lasted,  for  overcome  by  the 
pathos  of  it,  Corinna  crossed  the  room  with  noiseless  foot 
steps  and  lighted  the  wax  candles  on  the  mantelpiece. 

Death  had  come  so  suddenly  that,  lying  there  in  the 
trembling  light  of  the  candles,  Vetch  appeared  to  be 
merely  resting  a  moment  in  his  energetic  career.  His 
rugged  features  still  wore  their  look  of  exuberant 
vitality,  of  triumphant  faith.  There  was  about  him 
even  in  death  the  radiance  of  his  indestructible  illusion. 
As  Corinna  looked  down  on  him,  it  seemed  incredible 
to  her  that  he  should  not  stretch  himself  in  a  moment, 
and  rise  and  go  out  again  into  the  struggle  of  living. 
It  seemed  incredible  that  his  work  should  be  finished 
for  ever  when  he  was  still  so  unspent,  so  full  of  tireless 
activity.  Was  death  always  like  this — a  victory  of 
material  and  mechanical  forces?  An  accident,  an 
automatic  gesture,  and  the  complex  power  which  stood 
for  the  soul  of  Gideon  Vetch  was  dissolved — or  released. 
The  crumbling  of  a  rock,  the  falling  of  a  leaf!  Her  eyes 
left  the  face  of  the  dead  man,  left  Patty's  bowed  head 
at  her  side,  and  travelled  beyond  the  open  window  into 
the  glamour  and  mystery  of  the  night,  and  beyond  the 
night  into  the  sky 

There  was  a  knock  at  the  door,  and  she  turned  away 
and  went  out  to  join  the  men  in  the  hall.  What  had 
it  meant  to  them,  she  wondered.  How  much  had  they 
understood?  How  much  had  they  ever  understood  of 
that  symbol  of  a  changing  world  which  they  had  loved 
and  hated  under  the  name  of  Gideon  Vetch? 

"Give  her  a  few  minutes  more,"  she  said.  "Leave 
her  alone  with  him." 


THE  VICTORY  OF  GIDEON  VETCH     377 

There  were  four  men  waiting — her  father,  Stephen, 
old  Darrow,  and  Julius  Gershom — and  these  four, 
she  felt,  were  the  men  who  had  known  Vetch  best,  and 
who,  with  the  exception  of  Darrow,  had  perhaps  under 
stood  least  what  he  meant.  No  one  had  understood 
him,  least  of  all,  she  saw  now,  had  she  herself  under 
stood  him 

Gershom  spoke  first.  "He  was  the  biggest  man 

we've  ever  had,"  he  said,  "and  we  never  doubted  it " 

Yet  he  had  never  for  an  instant,  Corinna  knew,  seen 
Vetch  as  he  really  was,or  recognized  the  end  for  which 
he  was  fighting. 

"He  was  the  only  one  who  could  have  held  us  to 
gether,"  sighed  old  Darrow,  and  his  face  looked  as  if 
a  searing  iron  had  passed  over  it.  "This  will  put  us 
back  at  least  fifty  years " 

The  Judge  was  gazing  through  the  open  door  out  into 
the  night,  where  lamps  shone  in  the  Square  and  a  lumi 
nous  cloud  hung  over  the  city,  that  city  which  was 
outgrowing  its  youth,  outgrowing  the  barriers  of  tra 
dition,  outgrowing  alike  the  forces  of  reaction  and  the 
forces  of  progress. 

"A  few  months,"  he  said  slowly,  "and  nothing  ac 
complished  that  one  can  point  out  and  say  that  we  owe 
directly  to  him.  Yet  I  doubt  if  a  single  one  of  us  will 
ever  forget  him.  I  doubt  if  a  single  one  of  us  will  ever 
be  exactly,  in  every  little  way,  just  what  we  should 
have  been  if  we  had  never  known  Vetch,  or  spoken  to 
him.  The  merest  ripple  of  change,  perhaps,  but  it 
counts — it  counts  because  in  touching  him  we  touched 
a  humanity  that  is  as  rare  as  genius  itself. "  Yet  they 
had  killed  him,  Corinna  knew,  because  they  could  not 
understand  him! 


378  ONE  MAN  IN  HIS  TIME 

For  a  moment  there  was  silence,  and  then  Stephen 
spoke  in  a  whisper:  "There  are  some  things  that  you 
can't  see  until  you  stand  far  enough  away  from  them. 
I  doubt  if  any  of  us  really  saw  him  until  to-night.  To 
morrow  he  will  begin  to  live."  As  he  lifted  his  eyes  to 
Corinna's  face,  she  saw  in  them  a  fidelity  that  pledged 
itself  to  the  future. 

"Go  to  Patty,"  she  whispered.  "Go  to  her  and 
repeat  what  you  have  said  to  us."  Putting  her  hand  on 
his  arm,  she  led  him  into  the  room  where  the  girl  was 
kneeling,  and  then  drew  back  while  he  went  quickly 
forward.  Watching  from  the  threshold,  she  saw  Patty 
look  up  uncertainly,  and  rise  slowly  from  the  floor  where 
she  had  been  kneeling;  she  saw  Stephen  put  out  his  arms 
with  a  movement  of  love  and  pity;  and  she  saw  the  girl 
hesitate  for  an  instant,  and  then  turn  to  his  clasp  as  a  hurt 
child  turns  for  comfort.  That  was  youth,  that  was  the 
future,  thought  Corinna,  and  closing  the  door  softly, 
she  left  them  together.  Yes,  youth  was  for  the  future, 
and  for  herself,  she  realized  with  a  pang,  were  the  things 
that  she  had  never  had  in  the  past.  Only  the  things 
that  she  had  never  had  were  really  hers!  Only  the 
unfulfilled,  she  saw  in  that  moment  of  illuminating  in 
sight,  is  the  permanent. 

Passing  the  group  in  the  hall,  she  went  out  on  the 
porch,  and  looked  with  swimming  eyes  over  the 
fountain  into  the  Square.  Beyond  the  white  streams 
of  electricity  and  the  black  patterns  of  the  shadows, 
she  saw  the  sharp  outlines  of  the  city,  and  beyond  that 
the  immense  blue  field  of  the  sky  sown  thickly  with 
stars.  Life  was  there — life  that  embraced  success  and 
failure,  illusion  and  disillusion,  birth  and  death.  In 
the  morning  she  would  go  back  to  it — she  would  begin 


THE  VICTORY  OF  GIDEON  VETCH     379 

again — in  the  morning  she  would  will  herself  to  pick 
up  the  threads  of  middle  age  as  lightly  as  Stephen  and 
Patty  would  pick  up  the  threads  of  youth.  To-morrow 
she  would  start  living  again — but  to-night  for  a  few 
hours  she  would  rest  from  life;  she  would  look  back  now, 
as  she  had  looked  back  that  morning,  to  where  a  man 
was  standing  in  the  bright  grass  with  the  sunrise  above 
his  head. 


THE  END 


if '2. 


GENERAL  LIBRARY 
UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA— BERKELEY 

RETURN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROWED 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  date  stamped  below,  or  on  the 

date  to  which  renewed. 
Renewed  books  are  subject  to  immediate  recall. 


310et'54BM 


REC'D 


18Ap 


r'55Vl|         MAY  3  1  1387  1  5 


REC'D  LP 


JUN6 


LD  21-100m-l,'54(1887sl6)476 


YB  67451 


